about wearing out in the empty Providence airport

Unbothered runways press out to a deafened, mud-washed fringe of trees. Most people drive here. And away. Inside, neutral pop plays over the PA and suppresses mood. An unattended bag, a wilting plant in public space. How many rough mornings have there been at the Hampton Inn & Suites Providence Airport? Say goodbye to me and Massachusetts' shrunken head.

about the temp

I am filling in at the front desk this afternoon. A body is needed here. A desk is needed for the body. If someone needs me, they do not belong here.

(posts) a doodle

Watch your step at the office

At first I thought it was the screen: its glow embeds in your eyes, numbs your vision, warming your brain to a soft buttery spread only later to gel, caking your cranium with useless residual. But, no, it was not the screen. So I thought next, maybe the desk and chair. Spreading out before you a kingdom's worth of shrugged off, passed over trivialities to rule over from your wheeled, anonymous, adjustable office throne, a Bic Round Stic, your scepter. But it wasn't this, either. Although the sitting there, propped in front of the monitor didn't help. In the end it was me--the inevitable bend in the path I soldiered on, that path that affords such double 17-inch kingly views as this. As pointless the navigation, as mindless the destination.