Temporary

by Hilary Leichter

I retreat to the dim, postfluorescent glow of my temporary corner office.

Just because something is familiar does not mean it is mine.

I haven’t known many people who stick around.

Life is a stranger in a crowd whose intentions are unclear and, come to think of it, so is death.

My mother was checking facts, and what she found was mostly poetry.

Hands, legs, fingers, hairs, infinite pores, infinite dreams, infinite worlds, infinite tubes.

Please can I trouble you for a moment of your time, folded as it is, compressed as your weeks are, like a pamphlet of weeks?

I’ve never felt qualified for anything other than lacking qualifications.