Post by Jimmy on Feb 8, 2019 1:00:02 GMT -5
Meditation Before a Sales Call
The circles I run are consumed with producing.
Our conversations never involve trees, yet that’s
what I see on a five-hour drive to Richmond, how they stretch
from frozen mountains as if straightened by static.
They’re a uniform that matches its wearer invisibly
as the navy suit I’m wearing blends me. By now I’m thinking
more about trees than people which is probably a bad sign
for business. What can I get from this deal? I picture the man
to whom I’ll be pitching retirement advice. He rose at nine
and biked through manhole effluvium, leaving his desire
for a lover in the flat’s unmade bed. By now he’s rolled
his checked sleeves, gotten engrossed in maps pulled
from a long tube while the thermal mug of coffee and honey
beside him steams. I want to turn back knowing sadness
can absolve us, or loneliness can be like clothes no one
sees. I’m dead in the water thinking why do we need one more
single additional anything? This guy I found online claims
two-hundred-forty-one red maples alone grow in West Virginia,
yet that never makes the news, only population loss
as if we might dwindle to a single being. I’d want to be a stick
figure then, maybe sprout roots and let my fingers tingle leaves.
No boss hassling me to produce, I’d be thought of strictly
in terms reserved for forestry: one of the board feet.
The circles I run are consumed with producing.
Our conversations never involve trees, yet that’s
what I see on a five-hour drive to Richmond, how they stretch
from frozen mountains as if straightened by static.
They’re a uniform that matches its wearer invisibly
as the navy suit I’m wearing blends me. By now I’m thinking
more about trees than people which is probably a bad sign
for business. What can I get from this deal? I picture the man
to whom I’ll be pitching retirement advice. He rose at nine
and biked through manhole effluvium, leaving his desire
for a lover in the flat’s unmade bed. By now he’s rolled
his checked sleeves, gotten engrossed in maps pulled
from a long tube while the thermal mug of coffee and honey
beside him steams. I want to turn back knowing sadness
can absolve us, or loneliness can be like clothes no one
sees. I’m dead in the water thinking why do we need one more
single additional anything? This guy I found online claims
two-hundred-forty-one red maples alone grow in West Virginia,
yet that never makes the news, only population loss
as if we might dwindle to a single being. I’d want to be a stick
figure then, maybe sprout roots and let my fingers tingle leaves.
No boss hassling me to produce, I’d be thought of strictly
in terms reserved for forestry: one of the board feet.
