Except the day is getting harder to fake.

Looking into my boss’s eyes, there’s a deal I make.

One I can’t explain at family Christmas. Yes.

Yes. Can do. No worries. Worry as currency.

Capacity as personality. All this acquiescence comes free.

No one I know has faith. Why would they?

In the tenth floor cubicle I get down on my knees,

whisper, get up, walk back past the swipe lock,

the vending machines, old magazines,

squeak hi at the guy with the top-knot,

email my friend on seventh, what the hell is wrong with me?
On my knees, like the blonde-headed child in the cross-stitch

hung on my grandparents’ bathroom wall.

I spend all day here, knowing you not at all.