The Record

The supervisor’s office smells like industrial pine

and he’s looking through my eyes like they aren't even mine.

He says the log is clear, the time is marked in black,

and there wasn't any oil on the concrete track.

I’m sitting in the chair with my hands in my lap,

feeling the spring of a heavy-duty trap.

My version of the morning is a thing he can’t see,

a ghost in the room that’s only haunting me.

Under the table, I’m gripping the plastic,

twisting the bottle until it’s nearly elastic.

It crinkles and pops in a muffled, sharp sound,

while I’m disappearing into the ground.