[Mister Saint]: 79.Poetry.News
Hustle, bustle, workforce flow rate,
papers rustling, slipping,
tripping up the feet of weary workers
bathed in dankness, drenched-sweet sweat
kicking out the roasted scent of chicken,
ink, and toner.
Assignments coming in.
The tired eyes of editors
all dressed in jogging pants and t-shirts
clinging to their moistened skin
like ancient scales, waiting for a private time to molt.
A dozen jobs are done.
I weigh the rubbery camera in my hand
and loop the scratching strap
around my neck.
My editor, so tired,
looks like the walking dead
walking dead girls looked like summer Sundays.
We go together, through the halls and stairs and paths
to stone and grass where people gather;
there's a story there.
I snap and shutter, flutter
from place to place like swirls of autumn
swimming to the ground.
We're finished here, and rise from where we sit
in cool-smooth grass. There's a little sticking to her ass
but I can't warn her, not without admitting I had looked.
Jogging pants, when soaked with sweat,
to shapely cheeks.
It's easy to admire.
Hustle, bustle, worn-out but still grinding at the wheel.
Tomorrow, tons of papers will be rustling at our feet.