she had
a desk for people to flock around, a barrier between a
queen and subjects. her job, maybe, to set the
priorities, to hand out the
delegations. her window out onto the street was the only one not obscured by
gore/
lieberman or re-elect
locke signs.
she wore
politik black,
conservative, and black
leslie miller helmet hair. she was neat, spotlessly, no creases, so unsurprising she warranted a second, third glance.
she leaned onto her desk.
her head was in her hands, forehead inches from stacks of paperwork. she was alone amidst boxes and piles of
figures and
demographics.
not moving. black and still.
it made me
afraid.