POETS IN FEDERAL GOVERNMENT ISSUE Donald Illich   THE SICK PERSON At first he was out become his stomach disagreed with him, then a cold snuck up on his immune system, mugged it so work was impossible. Some of us began to count the days and the illnesses, as they increased from a month to three months, as he fell ill with severe allergies that needed operations, as his entire body was about to rebel from every kind of plague in the world, as some people began to fear he'd be left a head in a jar. Once we needed his absent expertise, which stopped our projects dead as if a zombie had eaten their brains. Now we treat him as a lost ghost, who sometimes shows up for an hour or two, promising to finish the document we wanted, but disappearing the next day, fading into his afterlife. We wondered if he had leave left, but obviously he'd stay on the payroll, no matter what. His office would remain filled with his stuff, his project calendar for last year stuck to the wall. Some of us began to see him as a saint. They prayed when they wished to skip a long assignment, said rosaries to his name. Soon, they'd appear in casts, better off staying at home. In time the office started to empty out. Everyone else coughed, about to go home, ready to call the next day their vanishings.   THE COMMUTER He always rode the same train at the same hours. He smiled at a woman with a backpack who ignored him. He always barely stood upright as the car came into the station. Life was assembled with the same shapes, a puzzle that couldn't be broken apart. Then one day he didn't switch, didn't leave one line for another. He felt panic in his chest, but couldn't move his body, like it was held by a child playing with a doll. The people changed, scenery altered. A man with a mustache, a girl chatting non-stop on her phone. Now he was above ground, seeing flowers and grass behind a brown fence. He wondered what was going on there, as if he could have another existence. As he continued on he wondered if it would never end. This color could roar on forever, into the night across the world, or to another. There were enough seats to sit. He collapsed, dazed by chance. He wouldn't call his work. Let them believe he was sick. The sense of movement relaxed him. He threw his briefcase to the floor. Ripped down his tie. He hoped he had enough cash on his card. He was going somewhere, anywhere. Wherever he ended up would know how to help him. With radiant sun on his skin. With dogs and Frisbees in the air. With government buildings in the distance, remaining distant, a dream he chose not to remember.     Donald Illich has published work in LIT, Passages North, and Nimrod. He was a semi-finalist for the Boston Review/'Discovery' Poetry Contest. He has worked as a writer in the civil service for almost 15 years, including for the Air Force and the Health Resources and Services Administration. He lives in Rockville, MD.   Published in Volume 13, Number 3, Summer 2012. To read more by this author: Donald Illich: Langston Hughes Tribute Issue