The supervisor
counts the seconds
as you wipe
the crumbs from your
face
and return
to your post.
Your hands--
anonymous
pedestrian
as the stream of letters
you feed to the
ravenous federal machine.
Your eyes
dead for years
dimmed by manilla
the bland white
of mail
pockmarked with zipcodes
return to sender.
Breathing the stale air
of a cavernous annex
Thankful
for your numbness
the regimentation
your suspended freedom--
From
the violence
of your thoughts.
* published in Poetry Motel ( Wallpaper Series)