Just An Average Day At Work

On Reading Poetry At Work

As I imbibe the words, the poet's become my own.
I speak with new-found eloquence, yet it feels smooth
As if these words were always mine, not borrowed
Like an old coat on an especially windy day.

I view the world anew. New colors appear,
And sweet sounds nestle under my head.
But then a loud clash begins to sound -
Reminiscent of a symbol at the climax of a symphony.

I am awakened from my daydream by the ringing phone.
"Ah yes, I am at work." I remember in time to answer.
My own words now seem foreign pouring out of my mouth.
"If only you could hear me a moment ago!" I want to scream.

Where is the poetry in a conversation about insurance?
Where are the words that fit, one after the other,
Into the perfect sentence for my sentiments?
They come back to me - moments too late.
Eliot whispers them into my ear, and they grow into a tree.