A foolish few of us keep fighting for independence. But bosses are out there. Sure savages, quick with their own designs. Yet the bosses above, indoors I keep running from, the psycho-analogs, nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to view the repaired wall unit, hearing you read fibrous new copy, pacing in idle suspense, smelling something burning, watering potted moss, falling asleep. When you listen closely they’re meddling, nudging nearer to your verbal core, editing prose, keeping everything tidy; above that, less of a presence, there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a family of mavens, whom Freudians describe as superegos mostly whizzing by shaking a finger up in the brain and mumbling something half-received, half-worked-out for the moment — be tiny, be warned — there are tribal warlords above superegos, and their thoughts are even more fleeting, harder to perceive as they’re fossils — given up to us like paste gems and glue blobs, deliberately dulled into falsehood, almost! 

I wear them indoors.