She cuts a swath through her unread inbox

Madysyn Amandalynn 3

The third part of a longer narrative poem I’m working on about romance in the Bay Area.

Part I

Part II

---

III

So Madysyn embarks on the role of PM.
Like a monk she devotes herself to the task
and wakes up before the sun at 5:00 AM.
She treks two blocks, with earbuds in, past
Geary, to workout on the mat in her gym.
By 6:45, showered, her makeup done,
she zips away her laptop in her Fjällräven.

She takes the One on California to the plaza,
and in sunrise walks the Embarcadero
in oranges and purples that lift up every pier,
the clouds’ cool fire in the mirror of the bay,
as the last of the electric lanterns disappear
and the harbor stirs awake, and people walk
not aimless but with intentions on the day.

By 8:15 she’s in the office answering emails,
making lists of things to do, planning out
her work with matcha green tea in hand
from the cafe (one of the job’s many perks).
She cuts a swath through her unread inbox.
There’s always someone to respond to, always
something to correct, redirect, or weigh.

The work renews like coffee in her cup.
Morning standups with the engineers
to find potential blockers coming up.
And meetings more than she had thought
could fit in the span of a day. Syncs with XFN,
updates with leadership, and share-outs with
the higher ups to hear what they have to say.

Monday to Friday, she wakes before the dawn.
The desks are empty still when she arrives,
and with a little quiet she gets things done.
It is the way she taught herself to thrive.
To set before her everything, and organize.
Her mindset ascetic, her routine militant.
The hours flexible, yet she remains unbent.

She says she likes the work. It makes her feel
alive. Assured, even when she wasn’t, by some
inner strength, the voice, perhaps, of parents,
telling her that she has just what it takes.
Her game can raise to meet any deadline.
She comes in early. She stays late. She checks
updates on weekends with a glass of wine.

But not all hours of the day were lost
to labor and the grind. She worked hard
but also played. The park was only a walk
away. The beaches not far. There was hiking
Lands End, and promenades on the Presidio.
Concerts at the Fillmore, and SoMa by car.
The Gardens were her favorite place to go.

There were adventures everywhere to find.
And always somewhere good on Clement to dine.
Mukuku with its mouthwatering shabu shabu.
(She went with Caeli from work who lived nearby.)
The Good Luck Dim Sum was so good she died.
And Brothers did Korean barbeque.
And Burma Superstar, and Pizetta, too.

Dates took her to Waku for upscale omakase.
The girls would hit up Trad’r Sams on weekends
and each time she would order a different color
of tiki drink, and the bartender, who liked one
of them, would pour free shots, and they 
would shoot them back, lick salt, chew lime.
On Friday nights they always had a good time.

And though work was hard, she had only
look around to find no shortage of perks.
Often she sipped a handmade smoothie from
the company cafeteria, free of charge,
reclining on the rooftop lounge, admiring
the view. Often she found herself going
downtown with some portion of her crew

for teambuilding that left her feeling renewed.
The work was never so hard to her that it seemed
not worth it. And in some ways she felt her job
wanted to make her happy, because she worked
so hard, and because she was good at it.
Perhaps that was the case. Perhaps it was true.
But there was one thing her job couldn’t do.

One thing it couldn’t give her, and she knew,
even if she couldn’t articulate the matter.
For though it romanced her with perks, though
it wooed with cooking and mixology classes,
with gift cards and concert venue passes,
though it set her the City on a silver platter,
it was not the sort of romance she was after.

What she wanted was a man to call her own,
not to end her days at her flat alone,
returning to the modest but smart decor
of a recently renovated studio.
Someone’s embrace to lie in bed with,
among the laptop’s glow, and a new show,
and getting distracted by a kiss.

And once she’d settled into her new role
(indeed it hadn’t taken much time at all!)
how her attention turned to other needs,
the way her houseplants, with plenty of water,
would launch new shoots into the light to feed
and venture out wherever it was hotter.
How abundance follows where desires lead!

John Gutmann, The City from My Liberty and Church, San Francisco, 1938. Oil on canvas.