They make us clean our cubicles and hide

the Marxist posters and pull down

the retro photo caption contests taped

to the lunchroom walls (“Madonna:

Justify my existence”). They always say

our best foot forward like a blind date

when you wear that pinching, one-night dress

you bought for this. On tour day

we’re always disappointed at how short

and white the wealthy are, how they clump

in little groups like tourists eyeing

the angles of the building, the photocopier,

the long and scratched black cabinets that hold

lives in hanging folders. We notice they walk

right past the view from the second floor of a sliver

of blue bay and the weedy hill where once,

last year, a doe gave birth to twins

while we watched, whispering at the windows.