My File

This morning as I opened my drawer
to look for something to wear to work,
I saw my file, my document,
as if it were superimposed
upon my clothes.

It is a swelling grub I feed.
It grows rounder,
an orange white and blue with rot,
a planet on a table too long,
the data stores on charts I make,
barrel-shaped, cylindrical,
the three dimensional portion
of a flow.

Its place is like my drawer,
underneath my interface,
down in the directories.
I fatten it with words,
this file I will not outgrow but leave.

Catherine Daly

If you've any comments on her poem, Catherine Daly would be pleased to hear from you.