Self-Portrait on the Night Shift

Sharpened elbows push flesh
further into flesh, bags are flinging, folders falling-
I hear it like a muffled cry.

They leave in search of chamomile steeped
in water. They'll be too tired for sex,
kneading lotion into feet instead.

Calls are made, heads tilt sideways,
shoulder to phone, numbers pressed into pink cheeks;
I stay here. This is the night shift.

+

The revolving door falls asleep again,
wrapping itself in the sadness of hair and dust and caught scarves,
an endless stutter.

I abandon my duties. I steal three company
pens and find a couch and curl-
it doesn't last long, but sometimes I dream,

and usually it involves the small pony I rode
as a child. His name was Kirby, his eyes were
planets, and he loved me.

+

Dawn files in like a group of schoolchildren
who fidget out of line. I begin to droop just as
I unlock the doors, turning the key with proud exactness.

The doors yawn to life once again,
falling into themselves
over and over.

At home I'm rocking myself like a baby.
After locking and unlocking for hours,
I'm too tired for sex.