The Trespass

You are talking about the promotion you missed,

how the manager looks through you like glass.

I should be nodding, or tightening my fist,

watching the afternoon shadows amass.

But there is a comma, a dark little curve

resting right where your cheekbone starts to dip.

It’s a test of my focus, a test of my nerve,

to not reach across and let my hand slip.

It’s a tiny transgression, a hair out of place,

making a wish on a face that’s not mine.

I’m stuck in the pull of that specific space,

while you keep on drawing the company line.