Break Room Ghosts

Break Room Ghosts
By MissT

When the day ends, my body is weary
Lines pressed into my face
like a crumpled sheet of paper.
My filing-cabinet brain
goes looking for the file I keep on you.
I bring it to my desk,
search through the notes,
the bullet points
that made the list too long to ignore.
You missed the memo,
but the whole world was at the meeting.
I watched you carry your reasons
in your briefcase.
Though I couldn’t email you the truth,
somehow you’d already clocked out.
The fluorescent hum in the hallway has dimmed,
leaving the kitchen
a breakroom for ghosts.
No more memos pinned to the fridge,
no more signatures required
on the thick, unspeaking air.
I walk the perimeter like a night watchman,
checking locks on doors
that open to vacant cubicles,
where the only thing still working
is the clock,
ticking through a shift
that never officially ends.