Interoffice Memo

Another poem from 2013.

Let me never become an interoffice memo
shuffled about under somebody’s grocery list,
stamped “confidential,”
passed back to quality control
only to be drenched with coffee on the manager’s desk.

Interoffice memos
are stuffy and overconfident,
assuming their technicalities
absorb the attention of our braincells.
But really, the words flow in one ear,
travel through the vestibulocochlear nerve
into our minds to ferment,
droning a muttering white noise
then reemerging through the other ear
like some kind of booze
consisting of shredded paper mixed with boredom.

Besides, if I were an interoffice memo,
I might end up like one of those adults
laced into ties and business suits
too tight for thinking.
You know, the sort who can’t stand
children’s mud pies
and tell you Santa Claus died last year
and Narnia exploded eons ago.
And I promised myself I’d never grow up like that.

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