Jeffery Allen Tobin

  
 
The Sublime Beauty of a Standup Desk
 
Behold, the shrine of the modern labourer: this standup desk, a sleek expanse of reclaimed wood and steel, presiding over the quiet tumult of the room. Here, no chair claims territory; the floor, a checkered canvas, belongs to the soles of restless feet. Papers shuffle, screens glow—an orchestra of pixels humming the day’s agenda. This altar, adjustable by gentle press, ascends and descends, a breath synchronized with the lungs of ambition.
 
Notice how the coffee cup—today’s chalice of wakefulness—rests at the corner, steam swirling upward like thought freed from the confines of a tired mind. Beneath, cables coil in meticulous chaos, each a lifeline to a portal of endless data streams. From this vantage, the window frames a slice of sky, a glimpse of the world beyond algorithms and deadlines.
 
Every element here speaks: the plant stretching toward the light, its green a silent cheer for growth; the notepad scribbled with bursts of inspiration, margins teeming with tomorrow’s projects. And at the center of it all, the worker, standing as if on the bridge of a ship, navigating through storms of stress and waves of workflow with the poise of one who knows the sea will calm.
 
To stand is to engage in a dialogue with gravity, to negotiate space and purpose, and to trace the contours of productivity with the body’s own rhythm. Here, the standup desk, not just furniture but a philosophy of work—a testament to the notion that we are as alive as we are upright, participating in the act of making something, anything, happen.
 
The day stretches, bends, arches toward completion. The standup desk stands witness to the unfurling of human potential, at once an anchor and a buoy, evidence of the sublime beauty of staying on one’s feet.
 
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Return of the Third Man
 
In the city where shadows stretch like the long fingers of history, he returns—not as a whisper but as an echo bouncing off the wet asphalt. It’s evening; the streetlamps flicker on, each a low hum in the dimming light. The alleys smell of rain about to fall, of secrets about to spill.
 
He walks with an uneven rhythm, notes of his presence slipping through the cracks of old buildings, stirring the air that’s thick with nostalgia. Tram lines gleam like silver threads, weaving paths that intersect, diverge, then meet again. The city breathes around him, a deep, resonant sigh that fills the spaces between stone and sky.
 
Billboards loom, faces and slogans fading under the scrutiny of time, while below, the cafes buzz with the chatter of the present. He listens, a silhouette framed by the doorway, the past meeting the future in the reflection of a rain-slicked street. His trench coat, a curtain of gray, shields him from the chill, his footsteps a soft percussion against the cobblestones.
 
Windows reflect his passage, creating a mosaic of light and dark, each pane capturing a moment of his return. He is both seen and unseen, a character in a story that the city tells itself when the sun sets and the fog rolls in from the river. The bridges arch over water, underbellies lit by lamps that cast golden circles on the rippling surface, like spotlights on an empty stage.
 
The clock tower tolls, the sound a deep chord that vibrates through the night. Time here isn’t linear; it spirals, dances, reverses. He walks onward, the third man in a play of light and shadow, his return an act of reclaiming, a performance that the city watches, spellbound.
 
As the night deepens, the streets empty, leaving him alone with the echoes of his steps. The third man, timeless as the stone and fleeting as the light, fades into the backdrop of the city that never really let him go.
 
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Night at the Laundromat
 
It’s past midnight in the laundromat, and the machines spin. Their humming serves as a lullaby for the sleepless. I sit alone, watching my clothes whirl in suds—tiny tempests behind glass. The flickering neon sign outside paints everything in a relentless blue, casting ghostly shadows that dance along the drab walls.
 
I come here to be alone, to be one with the rhythmic churning that drowns out the restless thoughts that keep company with the late hours. Each cycle is a meditation; every rinse washes away a bit more of the day’s dust. My fellow night wanderers are also drifting in and out, faces illuminated briefly by the overhead lights. We nod, acknowledging the silent vigil we keep with our baskets of waiting, our offerings to the god of small things.
 
Across from me, an old man folds his laundry with the precision of a ritual. He’s done this before, his hands trembling slightly as if the fabric might crumble under his touch. He has socks that could tell stories, I imagine, of miles walked and floors paced. Beside him, a young woman reads a tattered novel, her lips moving silently to the rhythm of the pages turning, finding escape between lines and lint traps.
 
The air smells of detergent and fabric softener, a chemical clean that clings to my nostrils and clothes. It’s an artificial freshness, but comforting, like the reassurance of a repetitive task. Here, in this small, fluorescent-lit chapel of cleanliness, we perform our rituals, seeking redemption in the purifying waters of wash cycles.
 
Tonight, like every night here, I find a strange peace in the hum of spinning drums, the soft thud of wet clothes slapping against the door. It’s a quiet place in a loud world, a pause between the worries of the day past and the uncertainties of the day to come. And for a few spinning moments, I am cleansed, baptized anew.
 
**

In the Kitchen with My Father
 
In the cramped kitchen, my father, who is a large man, hunches over a small pot, stirring what appears to be a tiny ocean. His spoon, a wooden oar lost in the swirling blue of a pea soup sea. He stirs with the seriousness of a sea captain navigating through a storm, each round of the spoon sending small tidal waves against the sides of the pot.
 
The kitchen lights flicker, as if deciding whether to reveal us entirely or keep us in partial shadow. My father’s eyes, two dark olives, fix on the pot with the intensity of a philosopher pondering the meaning of broth. I ask him what he’s cooking. He says it’s the soup of life, and with every spoonful, one might taste a different year, perhaps even a different universe.
 
I pull up a stool, which creaks like an old ship, and watch him. His hands, large and knotted as ancient roots, move with an unexpected grace. He tells me that the secret to life, much like cooking, lies in knowing when to stir and when to let sit. I nod, pretending to understand, my feet swinging slightly, barely touching the tiled floor.
 
Above us, the light finally decides on brightness, illuminating the steam that rises like soft ghosts. It forms shapes that I pretend to recognize: a dog, a tree, my mother’s smiling face. My father sees them too, or so he says, and we laugh, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls, which are lined with jars of things pickled and preserved.
 
As the evening deepens, the kitchen seems to shrink, drawing us closer together. The soup simmers. My father ladles some into two bowls, and we sit there, eating, while he tells tales of his younger days, each story a spoonful of times I never knew, of the young man who became my father.
 
In this small kitchen, with its flickering light and encroaching darkness, I learn that my father is an alchemist, turning memories and vegetables into something warm and nourishing. And as we scrape the bottoms of our bowls, I understand that this, too, is a kind of magic.
 
**
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Mahogany Coconut Candles
 
Oh, the mahogany coconut candles—how they invade the senses with a sly, perfumed nostalgia that’s almost criminal. You’d think the blend of woodsy tones and tropical whimsy could do no harm. But here they are, on the shelves of a boutique that smells too much like a crafted paradise, triggering me with a whiff of scented wax.
 
Back then, these candles were her domestic altars, a dozen little flames flickering through the apartment, their smoke a silent accomplice to every infuriating argument. Each light snuffed out left the room a degree darker, a shade colder. Now, seeing them lined up like aromatic soldiers brings a smirk to my face—a reminder of strategic retreats to the balcony, just to breathe air not flavored with faux tranquility.
 
How funny, that a scent designed to evoke the relaxation of a beachside resort could send my pulse racing faster than a sprint. Mahogany coconut, the supposed calm that carried the storm; every inhale a reminder of doors slammed in syncopation with raised voices, every exhale a practice in reclaiming peace.
 
It’s comical, almost, how a candle can encapsulate an era, how it can hold so much more than its burnt wick suggests. There I am, a decade removed, standing in an aisle laughing quietly to myself—not because the trauma has dulled, but because it’s absurd to find oneself shell-shocked by a candle, dodging wax as if it were shrapnel.
 
To the innocent bystander, I recommend them—“Great scent, really fills up the room,” I say. And oh, it does; fills it up with ghosts, with echoes of laughter that morphed into something less joyful. Mahogany coconut, the sweet smell of irony, the fragrance of learning to laugh at the past, one deep, cautious inhalation at a time.
 
**
 
Don’t Stop My Bleeding
 
This wound, open and unyielding, is not a cry for salvation but a testament to the vibrant pain of existence. Let it bleed, let the red wash through the sterile white of forgotten promises and unasked questions, a river of crimson truths untold. My skin, a canvas, reveals the artistry of survival, each drop a pigment, each stain a story.
 
In the quiet after the storm, there is the sound of my own heartbeat, syncopated with the drip, drip, drip of vitality escaping. It’s not a loss but a release, an exhalation of years held too tightly, breaths caught in the throat, now freed in a flood of scarlet.
 
The room spins with the surreal quality of a dream half-remembered. Shadows dance on the walls, cast by the flickering light of a candle nearing its end. They move to the rhythm of my pain, a silent ballet that only I can score. The world outside this room, with its relentless pace and insatiable demands, fades into a distant hum, irrelevant to this moment of raw purity.
 
Do not bandage these wounds; do not stem this flow. It is not suffering that spills forth, but a distillation of experiences, each one a note in the melody of what I have endured. The floor, speckled with my essence, reflects not gore but a galaxy of emotions, each speck a star born from the nebula of my own making.
 
Let it bleed, for in this bleeding I am both the creator and the destruction, the question and the answer. My blood writes its own narrative across the tiles, a script of resilience, a sign, not of what breaks me, but of what I release to mend myself. Here in this space, I am the architect of my own healing, designing a mosaic from the pieces fallen at my feet.
 
Tomorrow, perhaps, the world will demand its due—stitches, bandages, the quieting of this vibrant moment. But tonight, don’t stop my bleeding. Let it declare its existence, a red, roaring affirmation of life in all its painful, beautiful ferocity.
 
**
 
Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His extensive body of work primarily explores U.S. foreign policy, democracy, national security, and migration. Currently affiliated with Florida International University, he contributes to both the academic community and policymaking sphere. He has been writing poetry and prose for more than 30 years. He has forthcoming publications in Passionfruit Review, Loud Coffee Press, Poetry Pacific, Ink in Thirds, and Rundelania.
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