Ok, Fuckers

At work, I hear
"Goddamn fucker."

I want to be a fucker
and not here. I want
to be in bed somewhere
with some man in some sunny
room and blood buzzing instead
of all this machinery. I want
to be a fucker and leave the gray
box. You should too. Go outside.
Snow? I don't care.
Rain? I don't care. Save
yourself first. At work, I
hear, "Goddammit." I want
to be a goddammit, a god damn
deleted file -- I am there
one minute and -- poof: pri va cy.
I want to be the goddammit hot tea
spill all over the mottled
carpet -- it can be like super
hot and wet you know -- I guess I still want to
be a fucker and in bed or in a car or
on a beach or in the school library
or behind the coats in the closet or...

At work,
I hear nothing but a tap tap tap
and I want to be the tap tap tap
and touch my tongue to knuckles, to thumb
to thigh...

I can't get away from wanting to be a fucker:
tap tap tap. You should too.
Tap tap tap. Save yourself
first. Get out of the building.
It is a sunny day in spring
and all the sleaze bags are
fucking in the park. They're
sunk down under the wind
and warm. Tap tap tap. Now that
is a finger and you know what
you can do with it, don't you?
Fuckers.

Copyright Louise Robertson