“Cold Pitch” by Bradon Matthews

grey white clouds

Email dragged from brain,
Dropped into the inbox of some
Uncaring face illuminated
In blue, probably exhausted,

This is career advancement, we’ve returned
To begging lords,
The peasants grew potatoes, I grow
Bored of staring at a screen,
The sun beams
Stifling themselves, by the time
I go outside
It’s raining and windy, it feels like
Something’s happening
But I know better,

Inside the quiet hum
Of the laptop on the charger, the silence
Of my voice worn out
From repeating to myself
How fortunate I am,
How fortunate I am

Bradon Matthews is a writer based in Philadelphia with a bachelors in philosophy who likes to watch rain fall against their window. Poetry is a nice way to make doing so feel productive. Their work has previously appeared in Soundings East and River River.

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