Futility
Eleven thirty-something, Friday
On this six-plus year-old couch
Red microfiber washed a hundred times
My kindergartner sleeps sound
Mouth open-wide, audibly breathing
Blonde curls resting candid all around.
It occurs to me, two directors
One of will and one of post
Both think they traded up with me removed
Blame it on the economy
My lack of faith in those traditions
The truth is one was lost and one was found.
Let us believe in angels, the unforeseen of now
And talk not badly of this, our condition
We cannot view an email auto-response
As lack of recognition -
For the resume of the soul does not
Depend on their position.