Each day the fire in the corner
of my cubicle grows larger,
I’d tell my girlfriend.
Though not a described
responsibility, a part of my job
was to do my work, head down,
and watch it burn. My Disc-
man warm to the touch
and the spinning chrome tinted
a flame-gold. I’d either scan
invoices or receipts the drivers
turned in, and between batches,
I’d add a divider called a PATCH
for easier reading and burning,
I guess. Knowing why corporate
burned their road numbers
within our workspaces
wasn’t what they paid me to do.