Fiction

I sleep undisturbed in the back room
of my place of work. They have me making
doohickeys, thingamajigs, and whatchamacallits
that make me sleepy, so sometimes I sneak off
to find a clock to tick me unconscious.

I am having the strangest dream.
A man stands over me while I fiddle
at my desk, staring intently at me,
daring me to voice some discontent—
a fiction, for no one could care that much—
and I am so overcome with admiration for him
and what he stands for, I am brought to tears.

I wake with wet cheeks.