NewPoetry

Ben Robinson

My offices are not so austere.

They consist mostly of emptying

the dishwasher before my sons wake,

ensuring a reliable supply

of quick oats and cucumbers.

My father’s was a literal office

where I separated perforated

triplicate billing forms

for a dime a sheet.

The one I was meant to

help move him into but fled

instead with Mike C,

concussed myself skating down

the steepest hill in the Creek,

screaming at the woman who

offered an ambulance after

watching me rise from the asphalt

like some early man.

Loping back to Unit 207,

even my battered brain knew

it contained gauze

and a deft hand, a voice

willing each time I regained

consciousness

to utter the words,

No, you will not die.