At My Level

You get to see so little
of me here—just enough
to pay the mortgage, make
car payments, keep the lights
on, fuel the cells

that die in this place
five days a week
on a mezzanine
in a pyramid
made of smoke—a nine
digit number keeping

a diary of currency
accruing over time. You
know only the constraints
I abide by, that shroud me
in business casual attire

on Fridays, box me
in a map of rectangles, make
me a coloring-book caricature
with thick, black edges. I
do not disturb your fantasy

of greater-than-me-ness. It's
too entertaining to watch you,
a pawn in this Shakespearean
farce, restate your carefully
rehearsed, rhythmic lines.