Office Politics by Cheyenne Taylor

A consortium of hips, thick hips,

the unionized and synchronized

 

alike. Tough hips like rhino hides

herringboned around the watering hole,

 

assorted like the trove of rubber pencil

tops we picked through in elementary school—

 

do you remember mornings hunting

for quarters, earned or not, for god

 

knows what? It’s still like that. We wanted

the sashay and ended up with paper weight;

 

we wanted thunder, but caught

the flat clap of tires popping

 

on the freeway. We wanted the moon,

but all we got were catalogues,

 

inside jokes, petty marginalia. Years

ago, a stalk pushed through a seed

 

outside a windowsill, and all

those moons later a man landed

 

on the word rosehips. We’re still here,

romanticizing water cooler banter

 

as something we could pull off some day,

and until the boss lets us knock off home

 

we gather like rain. There’s much to be

desired, we’re told—to be desired, Oh God,

 

to bend down to the water

hole with one eye on the drink,

 

the other on its dry twin staring

back from the muddy tension of the surface.