she smelled like SweeTarts
and asked if the windows
caused monitor glare.
she rolled into my cubicle
and sat down on the ledge.
then I pieced together candies
that were left in the parking lot.
then the wood was hot
before the anvil. no one cared.
they say uneasiness is a matter
of morale in this climate.
she strolled into my cubicle
and took my cubicle
and I was left with a keyboard
to leave my head on for the
night.
