Poem #12: Or Maybe You're Just An Asshole

Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee,
which, depending on how many people take my advice,
could be after seven thirty but is more likely closer to nine.
I swear my blood is more caffeine than plasma.
The rush wears off right before eleven, so that’s no good for me either;
you’ll see me rush off for a walk with a granola bar in hand
and heaven help you if you try to stop me.
Lunch is late, because I’m putting out fires until then;
I’ll be occupied straight through early afternoon and by the time I’m hungry
you really won’t want to deal with me. Besides, I eat my salad in the park
and talking about work is the last thing I’ll want to do.
The earliest I can pencil you in is about two, but don’t expect me to be attentive.
There’s that mid-afternoon crash after lunch
and I’ll probably need to catch up on everything I let slide over lunch
while chugging Diet Coke -- you’ve seen me in work mode,
you know how much I hate to be disturbed.
I do have open office hours starting at four, but they’re always so busy;
there’s always at least eight people clamoring for my attention
and you know how hard it is to switch gears from one crisis to another.
I’m thinking it might be best to just stay late until I can get to you.
We’ll order in Chinese, we’ll huddle close over my laptop to see your charts
and I’ll make a comment about your perfume, how unassuming, yet sweet it is.
Just like you, I’ll say,
and my lips will touch your skin
before you have the chance to pull away.