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Napkins

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Leans back from his mahogany desk
Rubs the back of his neck
Surveys the room around him
Eyes fall upon the clock on the wall
It’s late
He loosens his tie
Gathers his papers
Stacks them
Briefcase in hand
Walks out

Unlocks his car
An Audi
Parked in the “Boss’s Spot”
Briefcase on the passenger’s seat now
No music
No emotion
Just silence
Turns the key
Drives out

Wind screaming by his windows
79 miles per hour
His car
Still silent
But, in his mind,
Thunderous
Flashy
Sound
Words flow
Poetry
Beautiful
Moving
Dancing
Full of vibrant color
Picasso would be in awe
Pulls over
He needs to write this down
Waterfalls of pigmented words descend onto the napkin
His only source of paper
He doesn’t care
He’s had real paper all day
A napkin is a relief





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