E
Apr/May 2006 Poetry

The Office

by J. Kelley Anderson


The Office

I align my knuckles in pale rows,
clench the veneer of discount furniture.

My faux-leather chair leaps backwardsó
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.

 

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