I’ve forgotten how to read,
how to make sense of Faulkner's words
and focus long enough to be able to
reach the end of a paragraph

that lasts for four pages.
My eyes no longer want to cooperate anyway
as I have just thrust them into the sunshine,
teasing them for an hour without warning.

They are uncomfortable without the repetition
of keywords and catchphrases,

they have grown weary from meaningless pages
written by others who are happiest down here,
who look forward to the mornings
when arguments at least provide sound.

My time would be better spent at home
where I would not have to rest my elbows
on open file folders or quickly switch to spreadsheets
at the sound of footsteps creeping up on my left side,

though I would not have made it this far
without something else to ignore.

Busier people currently with no ideas
have decided that four hours of pretending is enough,
leaving me to pick up the few remains
that have floated to the bottom

and scatter them around me in an effort to look
as busy as those with unorganized tasks simply ignored.
I think I've found my next project.
Sneaking in the short lines

I thought I no longer had time for,
I wonder if this is how I become a paid writer.

Alana Munoz

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