Poem: November 29, 2019

Unproductive

I'm listening to the lady
on the other side of my
cubicle get nothing done.
When I arrived and set
up my to-do list, she
was regaling the janitor
with stories about her
grandad who wouldn't
eat processed meat, wore
bibs to church, and spit
his tobacco on the floor.

By the time I was deep
in the morning emails,
she was laughing with
the new secretary from
across the building about
the sign in her kitchen
that reads I can cook, but
I choose not to do it!,
even though at this time
of year, with all the boys
at home, who isn't cooking?

When I get back from the
restroom, she's cornered
a neighbor who hasn't yet
heard the story about her
sister who lost the eye, and
the other sister who lost
one leg above the knee,
which she somehow segues
into a cataloguing of all
the Santa Clauses she
keeps around the house,
one of which she surrounds
with reindeer and that
stands about so tall, and
she wouldn't put them all
out since it takes so much
energy to do, except that
the grandchildren love it so,
and isn't that what this season
is supposed to be about?