Discharge

The nylon is humming beneath my left shoe,

a build-up of friction and grit.

The office is dry and the lighting is blue

and I’m waiting for something to quit.

I reached for the drawer where the folders are kept,

the metal cold-blooded and flat.

A snap in the knuckle, a spark that had slept

in the weave of the floor’s plastic mat.

It’s a tiny blue needle that stabs at the air,

a shock that I didn't invite.

I’m standing here shaking, a hand in my hair,

cursing the suddenness of the light.