It’s the unstrapping of the dress shoes
The loosening of the tie
The familiar comfort of a decades-old couch
That draws a line beneath a brutal day’s work.
It’s the little things that keep us sane,
You see.
It’s the inhale of fresh morning air
The languid shade of centuries-old trees
The gentle roar of engines stirring
That reminds you that, come what may, this little life
Continues creeping at a petty pace from day to day.
It’s the little things that keep us drudging along,
You see.
Last night, asleep on my work desk
Buried beneath deadlines and powerpoint slides
I dreamed of Chopin and Debussy
In joyful communion
An octave apart.
