Every day like clockwork
the raincoat lady sneaks her patent leather sneakers down the matted canopy of unnatural drapes and carpets. She sits at her desk with unexpected concentration as patronizing family members and once cherished friendships pass their judgment. At break time she moves but for the grace of god
hiding slight behind her Winfield Reds and sipping fresh-brewed potential from a novelty mug. She speaks to no-one and no-one speaks to her:
colleagues passing by like statues dressed in flesh and hardy bone. They're too afraid she might ask for help to ever truly care.