My coworker brings me chocolate
sometimes: singular,
individually wrapped.
He leaves it for me in the
maintenance closets, on the shelves
behind toilet paper rolls and flimsy seat covers,
in between the soap dispensers
and microfiber towels. I never
find it in its hiding places,
always needing to be lead by the pointing
of his thick square hand.
"If it were a snake, it would jump out and bite you,"
he says. He always says that,
grandfatherly, whenever I cannot find something.
"Another snake?" he asks,
"I'll take a look."
My coworker brings me chocolate
sometimes: singular,
individually wrapped.
He tells me it's good for me if it's dark enough,
healthy but bitter, brittle, and black.
I take it out of his blocky palm,
unwrap it.
I place it on my tongue
and find that
it's sweet.
YOU ARE READING
These People and I
PoetryThis year for National Poetry Writing Month, I want to challenge myself by mostly writing about people I wouldn't normally write about. This could include people from my past, present, or even future. I'll be adding a new poem by midnight each day i...
