Staring at the Carpet in a Meeting 
 
Vermillion and burgundy surge  
together beneath the sensible shoes,  
ergonomic chairs, and identical laptops  
We sit unknowing upon the tide  
 
I want to swim in those little crimson  
waves capped with flecks of yellow froth  
 
I wonder what would happen if I snapped  
my pen in two, screamed out, What's The Point?!  
and cackling hysterically, deep-dived  
into that stationary wine-colored ocean  
 
Let the undertow take me, I am drowning  
anyway, what if I just never circled back  
 
Could I bake a pie from a dozen Apples?  
I would shake the red-brown cinnamon  
from decision trees stretching farther  
into the future than anyone here can see  
 
Could I drift away, a drunken sailor plotting  
a course by the light of fluorescent stars?