I am glad I am not what I look like

A dark-skinned person at work
aggressively focused beyond street and coffee shop

Inky disheveled hair falls to the middle of her back
clawlike hands, like Midget’s, poised to clutch
to not let the keyboard escape
or to let the meek thoughts escape
thoughts that must be accurate and pertinent

An annoyed hand quickly brushes the chin
More thoughts, more escapees

Pale lime unbuttoned cuffs are pushed up to elbows
Is she thinking in complete sentences?
Is she writing a diary, elaborating a thesis?

She quickly hits the delete key eight times
Is “intimacy” gone, are “blossoms” defeated?
Are they about to “separate,” is “girlhood” over?

Done by noon, it almost has form
camouflaged form
dark green floral embroidery
on her shirtfront