it had been a weekend to celebrate–
none of us expected Death
to join our triumphant song
but we came ready to work,
because that is what happens on monday mornings.
fluorescent lights led my somber parade
through the halls, amidst the whispers
echoing through the air, sucked dry
of all life and humidity and tears
we didn’t know how to release
i found my way to my desk, tried to make sense of
how to work
how to do
what i always do on monday mornings
how i saw you, just hours before…
but i file those questions in the top drawer of my desk
and let the routine commence:
after the dialing, and hiccup in tone that signals another human voice
i pleasantly say hello, ask how are you?
unready for what is actually, quite normal–
they ask how i am doing
and rather than tell them
“well, my co-worker was stabbed to death this weekend,”
i reply, “doing well, thanks”
because how could they understand
what we cannot understand:
the cold, sterile brutality
the utter unfairness of what has transpired
and when the call is over,
when there is absolutely nothing left to be said,
i find such strange comfort in the dial tone
some ugly, monotonous song
screaming across the distance.