Flannel Dreams

Half my face pretends professionalism,  

lit by the white-blue light of screens.  

The other half stretches in flannel,  

a whisper of bedsheets still clinging.  

This is the paradox of current existence:  

Collared shirt buttoned to the throat,  

barefoot in yesterday’s socks below.  

Who am I, if not the midpoint  

of ambition and comfort? The camera's gaze  

holds only so much truth. My fingers  

clatter across keys like punctuation marks,  

but beneath the desk, my feet stay quiet—  

folded under, resting against each other,  

as if in prayer for a day less pixelated.  

Every entrance feels like a revelation:  

Hello. Will you see through me today?  

Here is my forehead, polished with purpose.  

Here is my lap, hidden but honest.  

In a grid of faces peering for connection,  

the hardest thing to offer is authenticity.