TWO POEMS
I Put Tasks I Do for Free into a Folder Titled “Jobs”
There are not enough hours in the day before I have to perform affection.
That’s an objectively robotic thing to say, my therapist tells me, when I speak
about my responses to sentimentality.
My weekly battle with the laser printer—a kind of intimacy, my pleading.
I don’t want your flashing red, I say,
