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.
