BY ELIZABETH GRICE ’15
I make a living sorting
slides into drawers that stick when the seasons shift.
Sometimes, when I stack them high enough,
I realize that I am playing
architect.
These slides do not know where they belong,
I must sort them
by category, by location,
chronologically, numerically,
and then into iron
cabinets that line the windowsill
that bang and clang
and boom when they are touched.
What music we have in our little factory!
To the trained ear, it is the sound of violent
organization, to others,
the cry of displacement.
