I imagine the Office of Signage
within the Department of Public Works
has a book of haiku lying open
on a table with an interesting shape,
and the Director, a thoughtful man
of very few words, is steering
a hot cup of tea with both hands
up to his lips, staring
meditatively out a window
when his secretary opens the door
and introduces me.
I imagine I feel nervous
but recognize hanging on the walls
some of his most famous work
which of course I know by heart,
and that puts me at ease.
As I wait for him to speak
a car screeches, a horn
blats its blunt editorial.
He straightens three exactly right words
in a polygon hanging by the thermostat,
picks up the book of haiku
and reads a couple or reads
one a couple of times,
then smiles privately to himself.
That’s when I hold out my imaginary
resume which he places in the book
and closes the book, so now I imagine
I’m holding his place with my foot
in the door.