Caffeine in my coffee
has a half-life of 7 hours
and I drink it, most of the day
when I’m feeling, half-alive
which is most of the time.
It melts away the fog
clinging to the edges of my brain
like a fire, burning, a tedious document.
I stare at my computer screen
I stare at the teacher with a complaint
it’s like she never left school
I walk to my car
and watch them
huddled in their group
She watches me
with a cold stare.
Some days can be understood logically
but most of the time
never follow a script, even though, everyone tries
“Good Morning Mr. Johnson.”
“Oh, the copier isn’t printing.”
“There must be an error.”
Then my outburst, which causes people to wonder who I really am…
“It’s the small things that send you to a madhouse,
like being late
when there is no time left.”
“Oh—Mr. Johnson, that reminds me, I’m late to a meeting—got to go.”
and I walk back to my office to contemplate the brown color
in my coffee
and calculate how long it will be
until I can drift to sleep.