Fingers dancing well-rehearsed choreography
across the storm-coloured buttons
of my company phone, I try to sound calm
as Trisa shoves me and ruffles my hair.
I say, “One moment, Mrs. Jackson,”
and it comes out slurred, her knuckles
ground deep into my cheeks.
I hang up, threatening
to wrap her long hair around my fist and yank.
Alicia e-mails us all from the pageant
telling us to vote for her
and asking how the office is doing.
In her wrestling with the bound paper,
Trisa impales her finger on a staple
and I offer her a Batman band-aid,
wondering, in five years,
if I’ll still know any of these people
who I see more often than my own family.