Workweek

1
Silkily on the Q
that conversation resurfaces,
the one where you
gently resist,
as you so often do.

Did.

Do: I summon you,
besides the times
you're just there
under your own power,
all settled in for a long absence.

2
Three smooth full moons, medical gray,
occupy the room's small sky.
The traveler lies in near silence,
declining Valkyries in favor of
the buzz and click.

Though held fast in his craft
between his feet he sees
dim signs of life
beyond the darkened window.

Orbiting further
and dimmer still
a woman's cries—

And outermost
the raging world.

3
Place yourself between A and Z:
giraffe? geranium? not counting on
being around forever, though
a long line stretches from you
in both directions, while you crouch there
retying your shoe. The gate complains
but opens. No one knows.

4
They come downstairs
crying laughing talking
silent serious

and open the door
and pass into the day
or night. The air is still

or rushes in, or out.
You close the door
against the same, or change.

5
The monster's a harsh agency,
music lights and smiles all hardened
by need, or fierce no-need.
It's not your looks exactly, but
the incline of your jaw, the way you
hold a drink. An interview reveals
the moment's passed, or past.
At home's a meal, and messages.

Robert Harris is a freelance writer living in Brooklyn.