The Art of Conformity

She is
black stilletoes,

starched white blouse
two buttons open,

more than a hint
of the high school prefect.

Beginnings unfold
like snow white envelopes

and in the massed ranks
of empty screens

she shuffles papers
like tarot cards

In a solitary pause
near the gurgles

and gossip
of the water cooler,

heads turn
as heads always turn

and small pincers
of laughter

gnaw the roots
of self-esteem.

In the office bedlam
her dress rages

at the greys,
the worn beiges of nearly 10am.

With defiant footsteps
and a razored smile,

she moves like
the sound of tears.