I, who am known not to be in the office when
I should, have a habit of haunting workplaces
And classrooms when no one else is around,
Going back to my days in boarding school.
Another holiday weekend, and the suite
Is empty, super-cooled with no bodies inside.
What shall I do while I’m here? All the work
I can’t bear to look at when people pass by.
It’s not that I like to socialize. It’s just that I
Can’t think if someone asks me anything
And struggle to be polite when interrupted
Or even to allow the interruption. As I work,
I think of you, however, you who will never
Be able to ask me questions because I will
Not be available by the time you read this,
If you read this, whoever you are, dear
Reader who has given these silent word worms
Some of your time and mind. That makes me
Wish I could ask you something, instead.
Wouldn’t it be lovely if all books worked
Like ouija boards at Sandover, and we all
Could converse, actually converse, across
The centuries? You could ask, I could ask,
Everyone could ask and answer. Well, this will
Have to do for now. The office is cold and empty
Of you. I believe in you, but I should get back to work.
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