This day keeps getting more and more disheveled.
Someone is having a party in the bathroom.
There’s nothing to look at beyond conventional
streamers. I find myself between sizes,
like a semi-abandoned miniature golf course.
I would like to invent an indoor fire pit
for offices that need more violent recourse
than rickrack of sensitive documents.
Once I was like a confidential file. I hid certain
parts with correcting tape. Keyboarding,
they promised, would be the only class we’d use
in our future of damp napkin removal
or ass-slathering. How many just like me turned
not to tricks but massive typing pools
where rewards were Tylenol caps and hot water
to soak extremities. One gal’s sweater
was the envy of all the others. Someone calls
my phone looking for a Rebecca.
Our office manager has found an innovative use
for all the defective paper clips.
Dear God, please stop photographing food,
I begged of the mystery caller, who
must have had water running in the background,
or property on the best side of a stream.
Photo by: lonelypath
