The Wrong Fit

The suit jacket was stiff and smelled like the dry cleaner,

a borrowed confidence that felt like a heavy coat.

The air in the lobby couldn't have been any leaner,

and the tie was a hand around the base of my throat.

I sat at a table that was polished like a mirror,

watching the condensation drip down a plastic cup.

I tried to make the lie of my future sound clearer,

but I knew from their eyes that the sun wasn't up.

My resume was damp where my thumb had been pressed,

a record of a person they didn't want to hire.

I left that room feeling like a secondary guest,

standing in the rain beside a building on fire.