Today at work I found a man at his seat
blowing intermittently at a potted plant.
Finding this kind of behavior unusual,
I naturally queried the entity.
"I'm trying to give it life," it had said, nonchalant.
The whole thing somehow irritated me
througout the course of the day, making me research
in textbooks and journals on the humans.
At 4.02pm, he was still doing it.
"Are you going to end up shooting all of us, Norman?"
Did regret having to pose such an unpleasantry,
but part of my job description was to be the one
who protects the office from implosion of any nature.
Thankfully, this was not the case with the plant blower.
By eight thirty-five in the evening, I had forgotten the whole affair,
then Norman arrived, ceremoniously next to me,
attired to retire for the night. In his gentle way,
he placed the plant on my table, his face
through a simple set of nuanced configurations imparting the modus operandii.
So honey, please tell Fiona
that daddy does love her on her birthday,
yet he has to remain diligently at work
to blow upon the plant.
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