Training Day High | Poem

Slurping up some cortisol.

I write this in a Richmond airport 
in the supreme void state.
After a training. 

How lovely this state is,
especially for an H.Q. employee.
Away. For once. In the field.

For these next few hours.
Nothing matters.

I left it. All on the field. And.
It went well. And.
They didn't buy.

But who cares? Who, cares.

My body is spent. My blood.
Viscous. From dehydration.

My voice. From unsupported 
"whoop-whoop" role play sounds.
Hoarse. Artificially deeper. Fried.

I binge-ate hummus in a 
Food Lion parking lot. And.
Guilt free. 

Guilt free, I say, "Screw the post-report . . . 
till tomorrow." Ha!

Life is joyously dead to me. 

On training days we do our part expending ourselves so sufficiently on our 8-hour monologue not even God could ask more of us.

Like a hospice bed I lie here contented unanticipating of the future moored in the refuge of the now. Serenely. Myopic.

I hope in your travels you have stayed healthy and at times like these I hope you have enjoyed the privilege of a well-earned Fuckit!

Ride that wave for by the time you land tomorrow will have already been today.