Sometimes there's a big fire nearby and also a pandemic going on and you're still expected to show up in the office at 8am like always. 

This was written and recorded by Tal Minear.

Transcript:

I wrote this poem two days ago on a Tuesday morning, in the office at work on a day that felt very apocalyptic. It's made more to be read from text, but I thought I would make a little audio version. It’s called Tuesday morning.

I am tired of waking up to a smokey orange sky.

And that it is normal.

In the office, coworkers discuss the ash on their windshields.

We should not be here.

I kick myself for forgetting my N95.

My bag only has cloth masks.

The air is hazardous.

And that is normal.

I wonder if it is safe to eat lunch in my car.

We should not be here.

The office smells like a campfire.

Even though both fires are miles away.

Both.

That is normal.

I text friends nearby to check in.

We should not be here.

My job expects productivity.

I expect survival.

Is that asking too much?

Going about my day while the world is sick and burning.

One phrase repeated in my mind

We should not be here.