The seagulls out there look like keyboard brackets –
The ones with a little chicayne, like a pleat.
What must those birds be thinking
Of my bent back, my heavy slippered feet?
My cat, a Q, sitting under the desk lamp,
Stares out the window, her slit I eyes on
Italic rays of sun and the underlining of the sky
Which I used to call the horizon.
I turn on the lamp. Its glowing question mark bulb
Asks me why I am wasting my time this way,
Why I am not running, with the space bar down,
Out there, on such a glorious day.
Dots swarm before my tired eyes,
Full stops. colons, diereses.
I save. I file. I snap the iPad shut.
Time for a comma. No! I mean coffee, please.