I press against my stream of calculations, I am not this. I am not this. I have weight on my
feet. I have breath. I pour a cup of coffee I will place in front of anyone and say, Here you
  But I am anxious for the day   when I will sum up how I’ve done.   I didn’t get in the
way much;   nothing important   was my; fault;   I got through   to endless nothing.   I die
solvent and slender. I made it. The man I serve shows me a picture of his granddaughter,
and I smell bleach.   From his skin?   From my hand, from the   rag I used an hour ago to
wipe the table.

Killarney Clary‘s fourth book of prose poems is “Shadow of a Cloud but No Cloud,” published by the University of Chicago. She lives in Aptos, California.

*Image courtesy Library of Congress.