the hum of office electronics layered
over one another (printer whir, air conditioner
buzz, laptop whine, florescent whispers)
make quite the quiet symphony,
darling. dear. we must stop meeting
here, like this. god damn poor timing,
we both say with our stares. up above,
the rooftop: a bundle of birds picking
at the carcass of a grilled cheese. someone
did not want the pickle. the wind whips
tears into my eyes. oh, it's the wind for
sure. the scene reminds me of us. urban
romances bubble till they burst. don't call
me that and I'll stop with the boxes full of bees.
the whole thing was a bust. no one is leaving
anyone. and these office machines are certainly
no Strauss.