Corporate

A job
In a huge, gray room
With windows wrapped
And cubicles cuddled

Fiddle with a stapler
Then with a razor
Both now in hand

The keyboard worn
Letters smudged and smooth
Fingers feel raw, ground to the bone
Chatter to The Agency
The Bureau in the know

Twist the neck
Loosen the tie
Incessant buzzing
Voices ringing

Everyone starched
White-hot starched
Rigid rules the collars
Stiff pressed pockets

So… stiff
They scratch… and itch
And scratch

Through the weeds
They crouch
For agenda
They bend
For the climb
They kneel

The body twists
To loosen the shirt
It’s damp
Tucked under ass
Sweat seeps through
Underwear, under there

The sounds of wet fabric
Echo through the walls
Walls of cloth
Cubes of cloth
Hard slap lands on shoulder
Look up at oily face, bleachy teeth

How… is it going, Pete?
Says the face
I’m… fine, I say.
You’re doing really well, the face says.
Going places.
The face walks away

Cursed by the itch
Scratching worsens

My name isn’t Pete