Work from home.
Love my work.
Love my home.
emails bloom
while dogs bark to be let out.
Love this house.
Love what I do—
so why
does this job—
this desk—
this blinking screen
feel wrong?
The scent drifts in:
fresh-cut grass,
wild clover,
sun-warmed air.
Tomatoes wait in my mind—
red, ripe, not yet real—
while I revise
a contract
that means nothing
to my hands,
my waiting dogs,
or my moist soil.
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