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.