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.