Draft

That foolish-looking satyr Pan,
god of the woods my book says,
but clearly not our quiet second-growth New England woods ...
and my book does not explain where
"panic" comes from.

I tell L to hurry;
tell him I need to get him to day care
so I can work, but once he is gone,
I turn back to the empty house.

I wish I smoked;
it's a good excuse to chat up a stranger -
ask for a ciggy or a light
and these days we'd get a private corner,
a camaraderie of the shunned.

I ask for informational meetings over lunch,
over coffee, though I only drink tea; I fill my calendar,
but it's harder to create community out of clean air ...
smoke weaves together into the clouds,
the shared smell of the pack.

I work hard, school my brain to success,
but underneath bits and pieces roil,
scream like bacchante and run in panic.

Careful, now, I put each consonant and vowel on my page legibly,
proof typed documents three times,
bent over like a penitent,
I send my words out in hope.

I sing the body electronic!
The e-mails and voice mails, the profiles and pages,
my code - C, C++, Java - and scripts.
Come, future manager, celebrate my self,
my uniqueness -- all that I can bring to a job.

Bitter smoke mixes with burnt coffee grounds,
the wind tickling the cut-short hairs on my neck,
the orange glow -- bright with each pull
on paper and leaf:
centuries of tradition more real and present
than the brightest resume.

I need a smoke.

On my own

Took a break and went to Houston with my family. J had a conference to go to, so the boy and I came along, since I didn't have any pressing appointments. It was nice to have a change of pace, although I found supervising L all day tiring.

And now I sit in my messy, disorganized home office and try to figure out what to do next. My afternoon appointment canceled, and I feel a bit unmoored.

It's not like I didn't have a lot to do.... e-mail, contacts, studying, coding. I better get back to it.