Foot 3
By Dr. Niama L. J. Williams
for robbie and markus

Stop.

Full stop.

Turn for a moment and look out of the window in your eighth floor office.

Notice the pinnacles and spires and rooftops in the view from your window.

Understand that you are still in this office due to the sweat of your brow, the hard labor of your body and mind. You are still here, gazing from this window onto rooftops because you have chosen to be here. You have chosen to work 10 to 6 with barely an hour away for lunch, you have chosen to continue to promise the fiancé home by 7 and lie.

You have chosen to create a dream and through your hard sweat that dream is breathing.

There are chairs, desks, white boards.

There is coffee, creamer and sugar in the kitchen. You are no longer slave to the coffee pot, but each artist here knows how to make his own cup, freeing you to heave and ho for this dream.

You don’t sweat nights.

The fiancé feels neglected because nights you plan and scheme and network with your partner.

You the light side; he the dark, both of you starving, but not the dream.

The dream takes days hours food vitality rent money 3 days and quit—

But you come in at night to train the new overnight guy. Because this is your dream and you’ll shift to night owl if the dream demands.

I wait for your time, feeling abandoned, feeling a natter who wants wants wants ….

I want the cream off the top.

I want what happens when the dream pauses a moment in its guzzling to let you sit and master, let you for a moment be Robbie, master of all in his purview, shuffling artists in his deck to make us all, dreamers too, pull greenbacks from our visions as you have just siphoned greenbacks from the behemoth you feed.

There is a sink-into sofa in your office. It is not a place of respite. It is a workplace when fiancé is at your desk.

You do not sleep where the dream takes form, in the place where it eats.

Many do not know this side of you; the lion tamer who teases a dragon daily wavering between full belly and death. They do not see your loincloth. They do not see the pizza sheath you draw back from a newly sated dream, bloody, black, whole.

Hungry again.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s