Unprofessional

The morning hums, the sky is clean,

I iron sleeves to keep the sheen.

Coffee cools, the hallway hums,

another day of boardroom drums.

The chatter starts, the charts appear,

I smile, I nod, I disappear.

They talk of growth and market share—

I play my part, pretend to care.

Then gentle hands extend my way,

a coworker laughs, “You’ve gone astray—

dog hair,” she says, with eyes so kind,

“just here,” she points, and I don’t mind.

I take the roller, press and glide,

a tiny motion, nothing wide.

And there it is—so small, so white,

a ghost that glows in morning light.

It shimmers faint against my sleeve,

and just like that, I start to grieve.

That single thread, that fragile sign,

a thread of you still tangled—mine.

Could be from home, the couch, the chair,

but I know better standing there.

The way it curled, the way it shone,

it’s you. It’s you. It’s you alone.

I hear the soft click of your nails,

your happy breath, your wagging tales.

The world keeps talking, unaware—

I’m somewhere else, and you’re still there.

The room turns dim, my throat turns tight,

I blink away the office light.

How cruel that fur, so fine, so fair,

survived when you’re no longer there.

I fold the paper, hide the proof,

your ghost beneath this corporate roof.

Unprofessional, to break and cry,

while others plan the next July.

But I would trade their goals, their praise,

for one more walk, for one more day.

To hear your paws upon the floor,

to come back home and close that door—

and find you waiting, soft and sure,

the only thing that ever cured.

But love outlived you, cruel and kind,

and left your hair for me to find.

So let them talk, I’ll sit and ache,

the world can wait, the numbers break.

For in my hands, a single thread—

a sign your soul still lingers near.

And though they’ll never understand,

I press that fur into my hand.

It’s unprofessional, I know—

but grief won’t let its white hair go.