Hire Forces

Trawling the weekend paper,
mid-week too, if her bed-sheets allow.
From bleary-eyes burning - online
scrolling, to sketchy signs on tattered paper,
outside dirty shops jobs hanging,
dangling carrots there, rotting.

Then weaknesses hidden behind woodchip desks,
sometimes strengths peeping out for a look.
She answers their questions,
a matchstick in a box,
looking for a flint. No luck.
She contrives her fate, her face, her persona,
their desks grow taller than her tales.
Her files disappear, into round filing cabinets,
her heart chokes out another squeeze.

She polishes her shoes, irons her shirt
and checks her mail, and again,
she walks the crowded streets,
their matchboxes complete.
They ask her what she does.