Motherless
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In the aisle between
the sameness of cubicles I catch your eye, still, meeting mine, but what for. A look drenched in yesterday, or imagined so. Why cast me some unreadable gaze two months after our fact. What is today doing for you. This Janus-faced move on, that noir dress I’d torn off with whatever else, on again, savvy to the affects it had/s in call center light. We’re acting-as-if, the fibbed change of new haircuts. Startle our week any time we quick draw the hallway bathrooms. The say-sorry way we enter the same elevator, like coned dogs. The fuck are we doing acknowledging each other’s existences. No more untold breaks for you —move along, get back to cold-calling people in the Midwest. I’ll let you know if you wrote something down wrong, because as you know, the client wants what the client wants. |
