stillfugue

to go out to the bridge,
break down, cry terrifically,
become breathless, unable

to speak of the terrors, but
demonstrate them with the full
jacket of emotions, take all of

my despair so I may sit
here professionally, with no
theatrics, no tears, no feelings,

and take the attacks of my boss
and the volatile piles of shame
from the bad dog, the boss’s boss.

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(My thanks to Erik, who has kindled a beautiful soul and shares some of it here, where the linked post and others spark the good kind of reflection in me as well as good discussions with Erik, for inspiring this series, which could go on forever, if I do.)

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