with a fork–not plastic
and someone to talk with,
or perhaps bicker
or a book, a book would be pleasant,
maybe something hot, or even something green.
It would have been nice
to chase a green bean.
There isn’t dinner
unless chocolate
from the secretary’s,
candy jar.
Now she is the administrative assistant
but we still bring her candy to put in the jar
because it will be dinner,
or lunch when it was 12:00, and then it was 3:00.
Chocolate was there, over there
and the screen is here
loyal beyond dogs on the bed or
buddies from war—it is always
here,
waiting for another stroke, another entrance, a shift
in the momentum of touch to key, to key, to key
spelling in staccato the written and sent
but as yet, not done, unseen.
There should have been a door to close,
a solid door requiring
walls, taller than the standard three feet
topped by silence we pretend is respect,
but the old walls that held a nail
for a calendar, kid’s artwork
a picture of the baseball team
with your brother, or daughter or dad.
Maybe even a window, to see the weather
or when it’s dark and traffic slows.
A window always meant yes
here was a place of decision
of resource,
but that was then,
and this is here
There could have been dinner and someone to talk with
and no screen, but some walls, and even a window,
but that would be another place,
and this is here
and I’m hungry.