Poem by Valerie Loveland

Fired

A man in a business suit follows me, like a sad ex-boyfriend.

He thinks I can’t see him—actually crouching—
in the purple sage outside my apartment. The dropped blossoms
crinkle at his feet like they leaked from his briefcase.

His hand looks so empty without his coffee
mug: steaming—just like he is now
(Business attire should only be worn indoors).

His pinstripes lost their structure—wavy
from his naps in the sedan he stows
behind my building—the same car so-often featured
in my rear-view mirror.

I shaved my head. When stubble emerges
I’ll dye it blue—wards off businessmen.

I want this breakup to stick.

I’m universally missed. My work computer sends
me emails—all 0’s and 1’s.
I appreciate a personal message in his native language
but I never learned binary.

My lanyard hangs, finally empty—keycards, ID’s
in the trash with my discarded stockings: wringing
and knotting themselves.

In my dream the office switchboard murmurs sweet
apologies in my ear. I wake in the afternoon,
my cell phone hot
on my cheek like a kiss.



Author's Note: Valerie Loveland works as a receptionist in a pet resort in Austin, Texas. To read more of her poems, visit her website: valerieloveland.com