by Amanda Johnston
A coworker sees me crying at the copier. I don’t know how to explain, so I don’t. She asks if I like poetry and says there is a poet I should check out named Maya Ange –
I go deaf and close my eyes relying on the machine in front of me to continue its business
and hold me up with the flow of industry and all that shows I have value.
A boy, this time, opened a box in his kitchen with his mother.
A world stops. The machine goes on.
Poem copyright 2022 by Amanda Johnston. All rights reserved.