Friday poem: ‘WFH’ by Martin Plantinga

WFH

After Luke Kennard

I log on at 8:30 precisely,
which is to say, I stare at the laptop
for thirty seconds before opening it,
which is to say, I am very disciplined.

A meeting begins. I arrive late,
muted, camera off, nodding furiously
into the void. I say, “I’ll action that,”
which means I will write it on a list,
which means the list will grow powerful
and terrible in its silence.

The work begins. I honour this
by stepping outside, blessing the sun,
wiping a single crumb from the counter,
considering the long arc of history.

Deadlines loom like slow-moving animals
who are nonetheless getting closer.
I write half a sentence, then preheat the oven.
A breakthrough! I remember a recipe
I once failed and now must conquer.
I tell myself this is resilience.

At lunch, I step into the garden,
read one page, make a cup of tea,
stare at a leaf and consider its patience.
My team suggests a meeting.
I say, “I’m in the weeds,”
which is true, because I am in the garden.

By mid-afternoon, my achievements include:

1. Learning a chord that sounds like regret.
2. Hitting a golf ball into a metaphor.
3. Watching an entire episode of something
I don’t remember choosing.

At five, my conscience taps my shoulder.
I fire off an email with the word “circling”
and close my laptop with purpose.
I tell myself I was productive.
I tell myself this twice, for emphasis.
The day is done.

I lie in bed and dream of working,
which is to say, I dream of dreaming.

Martin Plantinga