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Samsara Afternoon 

It's not
like walking sock-footed
feet dragging heel on pant leg
wrinkled sleeve rolled worn blue flannel
and 3rd day blue jeans, through
two beep badge doorways
toward blur shiny break room
I was feeling swell
to begin with.

But, it wasn't until
the young, normally cynical
long dread spike hair thing guy
liberally soaked in men's cologne
pulled his 4 unidentifiable but certainly
dead, cube like chunks of previously
charred animal flesh from
the often utilized microwave oven,
poking at them slightly
in their Tupperware coffin before
sending them in for another round,
sort of intruded on my space
while I was trying to stir my
steaming Styrofoam cup of
rich steaming powdered hot cocoa,
that it hit me.   

It's not the things we hear,
or have to say
or the disappointments and tiny
daily heartbreaks
that make life so

hard to take
on a workday afternoon.

It is the smells
or the combination of smells
that make one wish to be
far far away in a 
drastically different place

all alone
under the comfort of the sun.

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