Yard Sale of Thoughts

Cloud leans
against my building,
then takes her seat;

office job for the week.

She checks her emails;
fills in spreadsheets.
Nothing high-stakes,
she computes the daily expenditures, 
getting by on coffee breaks.

And when office syndrome 
sinks in to her curves, 
she’ll make up some excuse,
(though the boss might call her ludicrous,
even try to stop her).

She is cumulus,
adrift towards warmer waters,
a wind-blown
job hopper.

© 2026 | K.F. Hartless

---