My friend said it’s a phase we go through,
thinking we need to make money
more than time for sex,
shopping or female bonding.
She’s always talking about sex.
Just like I always talk about my job.
It’s not that I would want her
to make money from sex. But I wish
she’d understand a little better
when I say I’m obsessed, that it’s not
just about the money. It’s passion.
It’s drive. Not the kind she’s talking about.
It’s the way the night seeps
into your eyes while they’re still open.
Before you know it, everything is dark,
softer for having lack of light,
seductive for having lack of boundaries,
strangely erotic. I can’t keep away
from the sound this keyboard makes,
its chunky keys lit in purple,
the erratic rhythm of my practiced
yet unschooled typing –
my fingers do what they want.
They find letters and numbers and symbols
without my having to look, though
typing teachers would have a cow.
Nothing is where it should be, they’d say.
But it’s where I want it, I say.
That’s the thing. The house
can be falling apart around me,
but I’m here in my basement office,
everything orderly, lined up
like neatly dressed schoolgirls,
wearing starched navy skirts,
uniformed black knee socks.
I don’t have to see unfolded laundry,
spilled detergent or wrinkled shirts.
I’m tucked away from chaos.
Away a lot, as a matter of fact.
Too much, if you ask my family.
They say I live in here, at this desk
that creates documents and deadlines,
files and formalities. Did you know
even my clothes are down here?
Where is my husband?
Where is my daughter?
Where is my other daughter?
What time is it?
I’ve done it again.