NaPoWriMo #18 – The Office

Welcome to Writing Prompt Pit Stop! Day 18 of NaPoWriMo, and I’m still sticking with the April PAD Challenge…at least for now. Today’s prompt was to write about an office…and I didn’t really write about the office, but of a memory of being sent to one in my childhood. I certainly will work with this one more, as I didn’t get to spend as much time with it today as I would’ve liked. Anyway, here is my poem, “Stuck in “The Office,” the prompt used, and the Napowrimo prompt:

Stuck in “The Office”

The office is where
my young cousins and I
were shooed off to
whenever the restaurant
got too busy on a weekend
night after a ball game
that brought in hoards
of youth…not much older
than we were…for pizza
and pop, sometime’s
the works of everything
out of the fountain, called
a “suicide.”

If we were not sent to
that office, we could get
run down by the teens
pouring into the hottest
restaurant in town, or
burnt by the busy pizza
paddles lifting those pies
in and out of the huge Bunn
ovens, or we could accidentally
trip a waitress carrying
trays full of drinks to
thirsty athletes or cheerleaders.

We always wanted
to be part of the action,
inside that office we could
hear the roar of voices,
the laughter, the excitement
of a world going on without
us…and I wonder if that’s why
the appeal of being holed up
in an office as an adult seems
more like a prison than a
place that I really want to be.

The Day 18 PAD Challenge prompt:

Another Monday, eh? For some, Mondays equate to “back to the office” day.

For today’s prompt, write an office poem. Maybe this is related to your work, but maybe this is a poem at a dentist’s office, doctor’s office, bank office, office in a car factory, or some other type of office.

The Day 18 Napowrimo prompt:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that incorporates “the sound of home.” Think back to your childhood, and the figures of speech and particular ways of talking that the people around you used, and which you may not hear anymore. My grandfather and mother, in particular, used several phrases I’ve rarely heard any others say, and I also absorbed certain ways of talking living in Charleston, South Carolina that I don’t hear on a daily basis in Washington, DC. Coax your ear and your voice backwards, and write a poem that speaks the language of home, and not the language of adulthood, office, or work.

Keep writing!

Lylanne

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