She has deliveries to make.
She rounds the cubicle walls,
Her voice lilting
As she greets each person.
Sometimes by name,
Others with a hello,
Always with excitement;
Her enthusiasm is evident.
I consider plugging in my headphones
So I’ll not know when she arrives;
But no, I know what to expect.
I choose to leave the clutter on the desk.
She enters my domain,
Not a word is spoken.
Gingerly she holds the booklet
Between two fingers:
I am a leper,
My disease flaking from me;
The fibers of the booklet
A transmissive medium.
She must minimize her contact
With that filthy rag
Lest she contract
What I have.
So I seek the doctor’s couch
In the spinning iron ore
Spread throughout the globe;
I inquire to find the prognosis.
But the diagnosis accurate
Comes from the heart;
It is as I presumed:
I am not a leper.
© 2014 H.K. Longmore
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 