I sit on a box of paper. The manager says, ‘It doesn’t matter who goes to the office party as long as someone stays to man the phones.’ Wind scrapes against the windows of the 15th. The phone doesn’t ring and I swallow the silence of December. Below I see cars desperate to move and rooftops planted with ducting. I stretch. The lights on the cranes flash. In the city the carnival is lit with lasers and floodlights brighter than the sun that oozes between horizon and cloud. The phone doesn’t ring. I drew the short straw but I stacked the odds.
Search the fragments