it is quiet here
under flourescent desk lights
eating white noodles.

the spacing I like
but sometimes I think it makes
me seem pretentious.

the use of haikus
should be limited to just
wizened, older folks,

living on the land
what they grow in their gardens
and catch with their hands.

my hair, not whispy
my hands, not sore and calloused
but my coffee, cold.

it is a hard life
here in the dent of a chair
catching rain with spoons.