because of the dismal conditions I’m working from home today. Desk is free if you want it.”
They will assume I’m talking about the downpour
Which isn’t entirely untrue.
I scoff at my own inner dramatism
“It’s fucking weird that you care so much. Stop writing these things.”
Swap a character and a detail or two and write the story again
As I’m sure to do next month
Or the month after
As the screeching notes of chance hum into tune again
Then diverge, again, into stomach-churning oscillations.
Putting it all on mute seems like sound advice
But I am just an instrument
And these knobs and switches are just for show.