If These Walls Could Scream
No stripes and no florals out here, no siree.
We arrive in varying degrees of gray suits
with varying degrees of gray clouds overhead.
The building is a strong pinch too cold,
and they wouldn’t turn it down if you asked,
even if the blistering heat outside begged.
This place is a hamlet, nothing special for the breed.
Just a surprisingly brightly lit haunted house.
And I am not a forced labourer, no no, not me.
I am just the disgruntled office employee.
Whose desires go unnoticed—but alas, I have mouths to feed.
I lost the cultural particularities of my lexicon
in exchange for a tongue that blurts out
‘reasonable,’ profitable’ and ‘business.’
But I still don’t know what the words mean.
All I know is a paycheck arrives like clockwork,
every other week, laid down beside me,
a similarly two week old and blackened plantain chip
forgotten on your stove.
About the artist
Tessa McHattie is a Canadian writer living in Brooklyn, NYC. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Cerasus, Eunoia Review, and Star*Line, among others.
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