Paper Clips Gone Bad

Lights out in the office,

the paper clips ease

themselves loose.  

Let go of the paperwork.

Grab a cab uptown

to a jazz club, where

a mean trombone

vibrates up and down

and around their spines,

plays reveille to lust.

Music moves them to tears

and heavy drinking.

Some slip into back rooms, alleys,

or endless reminiscing.

Some are never heard from again.

Before the sober sun

can nag, they stagger

back to work. Try to find

the same cube, same desk,

same report. A few lie

unconscious on the floor.

Tonight they’ll do it all again.

We put up with it,

because a paperclip

that goes straight

is no use at all.

© (2019) Alarie Tennille. First published in I-70 Review.