indentations; soil and soul

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indentations are funny things

and the smell of mold in a dark office space can't just be coming from the carpet
and when it rains the concrete bunker that you've worked in for twenty years
only seems appropriate, right somehow
at least the waxy plant on your head high window has a view
and the rattle of the duct is the whisper of a confidant
and the dust bunnies always roll towards the left corner
and your mind settles like warm laundry in the basement hamper
and you do not dream of anything
except distant moons and what shadows would feel like

what sort of mind architect?
what sort of airy spaces must you be rebelling against, what sort of sunshine birthday cake varsity teams must have lead to the monolithic design, the monster
you must have had a sister who adored a cat
named mr. whiskers
and a mom who insisted on dinner with the family at least twice a week
where were your summers
left sunkissed and wondering
fascinated by dark alleys and
grim news of others
and you dream always about boundaries
and wonder mostly about depth and risk and danger

and grey days
and the kids stay inside
and the cars hiss by
and earthworms are happy
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