A Postprandial Exegesis

by Steven McDougal

FEET up, seat back, a report in my lap
I prepared for my postprandial nap.
In my belly sat soup, coffee, and bread.
If only I'd a pillow for my head.

The report was of the normal dry sort;
A churned out bun, no academic torte.
My eyes grew heavy, my mind went wandering.
Eyelids closed, the insides better for pondering.

Suddenly the sleepy silence splintered,
When, like hard blizzards in weather wintered,
All around me people start working,
Their tireless ethic clearly asserting.

At once in front, behind, all around me
Brusque, busy office noise surrounded me.
My phone rang and rang with many questions:
From curious queries to irate suggestions.

Close by printers rolled out reams of paper
In steady streams that seemed without taper.
Unrelated discussions caused clamor,
Ranging from last weekend's sports to glamour.

Numerous supervisors roamed the floor
With extra opportunities in store.
Thus wrenched from my postprandial slumber,
I spied annoyances to encumber.

But there is another place I know of
Quite near to here that will not bestow of
Itself anything but a gentle peace;
From this confusion a quiet release.

So, then, you'll find me down the hall around
The corner, down a flight of stairs. The sound
Of silence is the only thing I'll hear.
A dull report is all I'll have to fear.

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