Apr/May 2006 Poetry |
The Office
I align my knuckles in pale rows,
clench the veneer of discount furniture.My faux-leather chair leaps backwards—
crayfish flee in a memory of summers past,
aiming blindly for safety in the riverbank.I daydream Willy Loman's face in my soup,
coveting my button-down schemes;
it is important to be well-liked.