One summer, I couldn’t smile—

I mean I didn't have
it in me. I heard 
the receptionist ask 
the person over at the next 
cubicle why my face was always
so pensive. There was no explicit 
way to describe how, when I stirred 
the bottom of the pot, the only
shreds I dredged up were thin 
and toneless. Passing
the hallway mirror, I often 
wondered about the stranger
in the creased cotton shirt: 
her limp hair, exhausted eyes 
that looked at her as though 
there was something of such 
importance that needed 
to find the right words
in order for it to be said.