I was trying to type "Apologies." That's what I got. Maybe they're apologies at the end of something. I hope this isn't the end!
Anyway, I'm just damned sorry that I'm barely managing to commit myself to these poems this time around--mostly because of work. I did today's Writer's Digest prompt, which was about a routine. Naturally, I immediately thought of one of my coworkers, who has the same lunch every day. This isn't quite autobiography, then, but it's certainly informed by life.
On My Return to the Office Cafeteria
First go the imperfections of the skin, excised
with a pocketknife your scalpel. Then the bold slice,
two halves. Then the removal of the seeds
and their tough carpels. Halves become quarters
become eighths, until each morsel
fits a bite. You spear each on the blade’s
business end, take it in your mouth.
We last sat at this table twelve years ago.
Your hair was dry wheat. Now there is just
smooth skin above your careful eyes,
a brown spot here and there on your
precise hands—no impediment to
your daily work. The apple, then the orange.
Then eight ounces of cold water.