Writing about
that good thing
which no one writes about
I listen to my chair squeak
as I lean back and forth.
The gal next to me
leans around the cubicle.
I look at her.
I see her fingers as
she holds onto the divider.
Her fingernail polish is chipped.
I look her in the eye.
She’s smiling.
I try a smile.
You must’ve been
good looking
when you were young,
she says.
Her expression doesn’t change.
She is watching me
watch her.
She moves her fingers
in a wave,
and she moves out of sight,
back around the divider,
to her cubicle.
I listen to her chair squeaking
as she talks on
the phone.
