Someone Figures It All Out

The traffic lights, the coffee perfectly hot, the engine of my car gliding along in the morning, 

the buttons holding my blouse together, the soles of my shoes solid. 

I walk down the wet city streets, a bag, some money, a book and pen, through the swinging glass doors with the crowd, into the chiming elevator, consolingly efficient. 

Someone pays me to be here. 

The hours pass quickly enough. 

I’ve lost another day. But I’m not in pain, and I am young, and relatively free,

escaping into a book during the lunch break. 

And then I am back home, in the faint TV light, your strong head in my arms, 

figuring it all out.