Rob S. Friedman
March 2025
John Donne at the Department Meeting, Leaking Optimism
We assemble, as we do, around a glass-topped table in an unremarkable room. We organize our spaces and watch the stragglers find relief in spotting a seat left open near their least objectionable colleague.
We await the arrival of Agenda, who will feign delight in being among one’s peers and make noises of hesitation and resignation and other tells of discomfort, to which one of us will respond with a sigh of beleaguered support.
And as we nestle into the molded seat of a wooden chair and ponder the futility of expectations, we realize yet again that we are here, each and all, united only by the begrudging acceptance of time passing, and our invisibility.
And like a wave or random swell, an inchoate thought emerges in our fluttering Agenda medias res, a near-silent muttering as unintelligible as our collective indifference is wan, and a “well, then, let’s begin” sparks yawns and exhalations.
And we dare to look around into eyes that recognize the complacency we’ve imbued in each other and hear our own mocking inner thought, “let’s not.” For though we all are credentialed and ranked, though most of us wonder how, we each harken silently back to crisper days of eager anticipations of respect and published profundities, all turned into a shared dismay.
We know there could be something good, should we pretend to be stroking as a team, with ears attuned toward a coxswain’s call, yet instead we find our common desire in longing for this time to pass, for all time to pass, and imagine making our way to the parking deck and flashing an ironic gallows smile at our fellow travelers.
Rob S. Friedman 