I can stroll through their muted neutral corridors
be conveyed between floors and
worlds of ethereal architecture
by the loftiest escalators
I can shit in their toilets
and park under pines
near the front entrance
I can discuss the events of my weekends with teammates
congenial and dull
stand in long lines
during personal pizza luncheons in the cafeteria
be proffered pens and tchotchkes
bearing pharmaceutical logos
But they won’t pay me their wages
won’t include me in their sick time
and paid holidays
and accrued vacation time
and medical, dental, vision, prescription, 401(k) and life insurance plans
They won’t even include me in their on-site gym
so I can try to undo the deleterious
effects of all this sitting,
this mysterious “word smithing” they demand of me
40-plus hours a week
My badge is the wrong color
it has a pale blue stripe
doesn’t bear the royal purple
My badge has the wrong word
announces my pariah status
from several feet away
with block cap letters
emblazoned beneath my photo
C-O-N-T-R-A-C-T-O-R,
not
E-M-P-L-O-Y-E-E
And yet I’m just as much the worker bee
trying to stay afloat in this
molasses-thick sea
atrophying economy
global injustice for you and me
doesn’t matter—my academic pedigree
doesn’t render me immune
from expendability
My badge is purple, not blue
What’s a poor
Edgar Allan Poe-quoting
library-book toting
former teacher-turned-office drone
to do?
And how’s the new job working out for you?
amor et mortem 