—Amelia Earhart

I rush to open blinds in my office each morning,
turn on a lamp, glance around my orderly desk. 

There is no chaos here, not at all like the chaos 
in my mind. I beg light to shine on me,

say “Good morning” to cats, raise doves from sleep,
look at my calendar, already 

the seeds of work toil in the day at hand. 
I think I must be a new species. 

While others dream of foreign lands, the great outdoors,
I choose work, an office full of it. With cats at my feet,

cats on their tree, cats in their beds, I work.
Still, it piles up, which people don’t understand.

They don’t get why I take on more and take on more.
Driven is not the right word, money

is not the right word. The English language doesn’t have
the word I need for why I work like I do. 

Someday there will be an end to it. My high school sends
out a list of those who’ve died each year. I’m not on it. 

Overhead, geese are headed for the lake, signaling
this great cold is over, no snow, just lots of wind.

I say, Be the hero of your life, not the victim. I own 
being complicated. It’s an art I have perfected.