Grounding

The carpet in the hall is a dry, thirsty wool

that drinks the friction from the soles of my shoes.

I move through the office like a live wire,

carrying a charge I didn't choose.

I reached out to hand the temp a file

and a blue spark snapped between our hands.

It sounded like a twig breaking in the cold,

a sudden break in the air's invisible bands.

We both jerked back before the word 'sorry'

could bridge the gap that the voltage had made.

It’s a sharp little shock, a reminder of the skin,

and the price of the contact that we’re both afraid.