In the adjacent cubicle, his Fiskars
shred Life, Time, People.
Shaking hands arrange crumbs of
pentameter. Each iambic jumble
is completed on Sunday, and Monday
morning is mailed with no return address
to the secretary downstairs. He works
every day, walking past her desk for a glimpse
of pencil-skirted silhouette against foggy fingers
in the streets. He fears the fog will see her
shadow on the glass and snatch her
to the ocean away from squalling
babies and trains and men in upstairs cubicles.

2005

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