OFFICE HOURS

Midnight on Grand River, and the car barns

are quiet, the last truck left hours ago.

The watchman dreams through his rounds.

If you entered the office now you’d find

all the old upright Smith Coronas sheathed

in their gowns, the pencils tucked in drawers,

the fountain pens dreaming of the epics

they’ll never write, the paper clips

holding together reports on nothing at all.

You’re at the heart of a nation that divides,

adds, subtracts, and never multiplies.

Before it rings, pick up the phone,

say in a voice you’ve never used before,

your Uncle Sam voice, “Yes, this is he,

tell me what you’d like to hear…”

and wait until the line goes dead.

Years ago you inherited all these desks

and the women who man them

along with all the meaningless facts

that detail the profit and loss of each day.

What’s it worth? You’ll get your answer

from the mice as they make their way

in search of anything usable left behind.

If not from the mice, then from something else

with greater purpose and a smaller mind.