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Ellen Richardson Poem
Samantha feels like spider kill --
horribly alive, but stuck.
Stuck!
Inside the web
functional furniture
desperate office art.
No windows, so no seasons.
Thank God her mind took protective, evasive
measures long ago.
She's unbudgeable.
She's prehistoric!
And it's a beautiful day in the land of, "Sorry.
I'm just a temp."
Everybody --
The whole crew,
tries desperately, unsuccessfully
to ignore the tight, inflexible Agatha Snipe.
She absolutely,
resolutely
refuses to dilate....
Thus, they are all dealing with a breech,
foot- first personality which has gone unchecked for years.
Sweet Jesus!
Samantha wishes fervently that Snipe would shut up!
But the Snipester stalks, steams and strides
through corridors and cubicles --
pressed, but still probing...
She is looking for her personal calendar
swearing it was on her desk yesterday...
Today... she is just swearing --a waste of breath for sure,
to ask the new girl....Amanda?
No! That's right, Samantha. Simple Samantha!
Samantha tries to keep
an unfortunately timed spasm of delight
from appearing on her face.
The calendar is excruciatingly visible,
marinatinag since early morning on the desk of Mr. Chase.
Owner.
Snipe ponders and postulates.
She is losing it!
Time for new employment.
That should open up the door for that little tramp/temp.
Feeling comforted, superior, Snipe is...gone!
Maybe the Zombies go
about their quiet business
unseen
unheard
unwatched
but not quite dead, yet,
don't you think?
Copyright © Ellen Richardson | Year Posted 2006
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