Closely monitored in this glass house
I appear to be on sale, or maybe just for show.
I can hear the fizzing coming from the temp agency’s baby monitor.
I can see its long, gleaning silver neck from the corner of my eye,
maintaining the posture of a ballerina as it sits, like a poacher,
waiting to pounce, like a pariah, on its prey with the slip of one mistake.
every car is their car, the one sent to take me away.
every face is their face, looking down at me in shame.
you barely missed it, you didn’t make the cut, they’ll say
right before they’ll ask me to leave the lifeboat
leaving me in freezing waters, alone, to sway.