POEM - Where God lives?

The thought of being there
Makes me sick with dread
My stomach actually turns upon itself
Ready to vomit someone else’s plan for me
And asks the new me who I have become
To banish all thoughts of it
But I cannot and never will
Forget sitting there
In rulered rows of mauve chairs
Turning the pages of my bible
On the cover
The date of my baptism inscribed
My fate decided
As it lay on my skirted lap
My small fingers
Searching
The answer is here
It’s supposed to be here
I’m told to go back
And look again
But I just can’t

POEM - Every Morning

Every morning I step into the lift
It seldom fails to bring me down
Up to the fifth floor
This morning the other person
Is a girl my age
Who has taken no effort with her appearance
Her large white calf is dressed
In a large green tattoo of something indiscernible
Drawing attention to the wide ankle at its base
Which floor she politely asks
Every day I go down to number five
Three is her number
Only two floors a short ride
Don’t do it I will her
Don’t do it
Just two floors
You can make it that far
Beautiful weather and we’re stuck indoors
You had to say it
Bring up the weather in the elevator
Because that is expected stranger-in-the morning conversation
Or a need to fill the silence
That reminds you of this futile ride down
Up to our cubicles of blood letting poison
The way in which we follow our scripts
Without question not pausing long enough
To build the courage to say no
I will no longer talk about the weather with
Strangers I have known for ten years
In the public box that takes us to our own private boxes
Sucking on lattes and drowning
In idle conversation
Isn’t that always the case I say
Fuck