Dave Bonta's short poem catches the odd, dreamlike numbness of a workday. The speaker heads to an office where even a committee, normally the most plodding thing imaginable, turns into "a sail," something light and drifting that carries him along without any effort of his own. He isn't steering; he's just being moved.
The middle lines are stranger and more unsettling. His eyes won't let him believe that his wife is "not my wife," a twisted phrasing that suggests he's trying to see something familiar as foreign, or can't quite trust what's in front of him. The poem doesn't explain why, so the sense of estrangement hangs there. His mind, meanwhile, holds only "another day's notes," recycled and secondhand.
The final line lands hardest: he is "making an answer do for a lie." The speaker seems to be getting by on half-truths, and the mood is one of quiet detachment, tinged with guilt and fatigue.