I have two small windows in my office-
2′ by 4′ rectangles of which
Only one works.
The other is covered by
Tangled Crape-Myrtle and Spanish moss overgrowth.

The functioning window is merely half usable
Because the thick bower covers only half the glass.
It lets the sun in, albeit filtered,
Through its ever present leaves,
But it is grand nonetheless, lighting
My 40-plus hour world.

I don’t gaze out it.
The outside world
Taunts above my eyes’ level.
The only visible thing through the rapping leaves
Is the roof of the adjacent building.

I’ll dream within instead.

My curved desk is cluttered.
Bits of paper-important work notes.
The morning’s coffee cup-brim stained
With lip dragged remnants of
A long caffeine-soaked draught.

Pens, pencil, notes are the only
Tangible evidence of my work.
The rest?
Confined to 1′s and 0′s; I’m entombed in digital.

Even my writing and my poetry-the best
I’ve done, what I’m most proud of,
Has only existed or been conceived
WIth back straight or hunched
Over a keyboard clacking.

Will you know I existed after my drives crash;
My printers break?
I’m fleeting, fleeting indeed,
But my words are fleeting yet.

For now, just this once,
I’ll at least write this poem with my own hand
On some scrap of paper.