That place you go

We meet in the dingy office kitchenette
At the ergonomic center of cubie-land.
Pouring a coffee from the communal pot
You ask me how I'm doing.
Terrible, I answer.
This stops you in your tracks.
It's not the answer you expect.
Fine, OK, not too shabby,
Maybe a shoulder shrug, a grunt—
But terrible?
Yes, terrible, I hold firm.
Your hands fidget around your cup,
Not sure what to say next,
Or if you want to speak at all.
No worries, I'll talk.

I begin to tell you my tale of woe:
Too much, too little time;
Unfair expectations, rampant stupidity.
Your eyes begin to darken.
Layer upon layer of detail
I weave so that you might understand.
But you have gone someplace else.
I can see straight through your pupils
To a dark wall at the edge of your being.
Rods and cones are moving about
Like a miniature inflatable bounce ride
At the fair.
Then I see you in there, too,
Floating, bouncing, laughing.

Seems like I could shout
Or snap my fingers—
Bring you crashing back—
But you seem so damn happy
In that place you go.
So I continue with my ranting,
Tell you about yesterday's meeting
That went on for hours
Led by that idiot in finance
All the while looking deep into your eyes
As you do one somersault after another
Gliding in slow motion up, up, up...
—HEY!—
Are you waving to me?
From in there?
I think you are;
I think you see me.
That's very rude.