Not a Sonnet

Just after lunchtime,
in the blank sum of average summer,
the mean free path of wet and dry,
lighting only memory,
that's me, my job defined,
but seeming fuzzy
to the well-defined elite,
who rise at six
and work for eight-to-ten
or more if asked or needed.
They seem to make things,
taking thesauri to specs
to break a simple phrase
to split and tick of darker daylight.

Tell me what you make
and how what you make
makes us better.
It's like trying to explain
a bolted-on dimension,
one more than three that bind us
to this universe.

You switch and jump through space,
become me in this poet's chair,
working through his fun at lunch
to spit crumbs at the keyboard,
to laugh at office drones
yet knowing how they work,
the files and fax and email,
meetings made for sleeping.

Your notes are love and fun
and death and tears,
of babies gurgling happily
with syllables they practise,
how that girl once smiled at you,
and glanced sideways through her bangs
her face glowing with the irony.
.
.