I celebrate the break room. I sing of the break room.
I loiter at its table, in a chair from the conference room.
The original chairs have collapsed under the weight of lunchtime levity.
I lean and loaf at my ease observing the box of Munchkins left over from the
morning’s Executive Committee meeting.
Only the plain cake ones remain, unadorned,
fit only for consumption when desperation beckons.
I have seen this postcard tacked to the bulletin board.
I have taken in its representation of warmth, frivolity, intoxication.
I have studied it and presumed much.
Gentle breezes redolent of pineapple, perhaps Coppertone.
Turndown service. It evokes the luxury that one has paid to enjoy.
No cheese Danish in a bag hung on the door handle, this.
Its reverse side bears happy tidings, promises of swift return.
The person who sent it two years ago no longer works here.
What is it? Rank, gross, bewhiskered with gossamer strands.
Its container yields no answer as to its origin.
The door opens and closes by scores of hands attached to persons with no known
olfactory disorders, and yet this thing remains, fecund, hirsute but glistening,
releasing more of its stench as it is pushed further
back to make room for everyone’s Greek yogurts.
It is no one’s job to deal with it. It is everyone’s job.
Who is that cannot be bothered with rinsing a bowl?
Who goes through all prior motions,
filling, pouring, heating,
stirring, heating again, lifting spoon to purs’d lips
and chewing, swallowing, repeating these motions
until the vessel is emptied.
What is it that makes you feel as though you cannot
clean up after yourself?
Where do you think you are?
Where is your mother?
The yellowing Dilbert comic strip!
It tells of managerial passive aggression while its mere placement
bespeaks the same.
I cannot tell you directly what is irritating to me. Dilbert is my voice.
I am Dilbert, and yet I am also Cathy.
You will sort of know who I am and what I mean.