after Paul Burns hanged himself in the corner office

A poem.

I loosen my tie. it's 1:43.

the office parking lot gleams like a broken plate

outside the window beside my crowded desk.

my phone shudders, then again, then again.

I don't touch it because I'm reminded of a fear-

struck mouse, a thing terrified, capable of biting.

I struggle with the image of the body bag 

they offered you up in at 10 a.m: 

a black bullet painted white by weak overhead lights.

I sermoned for you while a camera chittered

& detectives slid the evidence of your life

into clear plastic shrouds. a few officers

loitered in the break room,

drawn by the promises of the vending machines.

it's 2:15. I have to lead a meeting at 3.

but what do you say to a sea of red eyes?

I'm sorry you're human? no, I'm actually not better

than a frightened dog, here, now, with you.

three days ago I looked into the eyes of my friend,

who seared his hands like the rest of us

over a flaming bin of emails,

who deflected 4 a.m. threats from the CEO

carved in Arial or Times New Roman,

who told me he wanted to die,

& all I could do was buy him drink after drink,

comment about a dance floor we'd never conquer,

& browse my phone as if it was a messy drawer.

now it's 2:47. 

there's some coffee I could drink,

but it's cold now, mute in a styrofoam casket.

I want to sleep, right here beneath the desk, 

surrendered to trash & power cables, but I can't. 

not yet. I need to stand & re-tighten my tie.