The Perimeter

They are laughing at something behind the ferns.

I’m picking a piece of white lint

off my blazer, trying to look busy

with a plate of cold Swedish meatballs.

I’ve worked with these people for five years,

but their names have dissolved like sugar.

I watch a single lemon slice

bobbing in the lukewarm Sprite,

circling the plastic rim, going nowhere.

Someone asks me how the summer’s been

and I realize I haven't used my voice

since the morning I talked to the cat.