Open Letter to Middle Management

Hello Brain Reese.
I am writing this
on what must once have been your machine

your passwords are everywhere
my theory is that you
were unceremoniously fired
from (insert company name)

and while you didn’t see the guillotine
in your boss’ perfectly neutral smile
other team players’
animal instincts kicked in
and smelled the corporate slaughter about to ensue

and they, in their shock and disbelief
of being let go,
(some via an automated message)
that stated:
(insert employee’s name’s) position has been restructured due to
the rise and fall and ebb and flow of time itself.
or some other forked tongue big-business speak

responded in a way
that can only be called very amusing and ghetto:

they looted.
These people, in their business casual,
Their Dockers and Kenneth Coles,
ran to their desks and seized what they could,
something of value, something to keep them afloat,

something to pacify.

Which brings us to this moment, Brian.
to this open letter to you
And millions like you.

Your machine, a snazzy-top-of-the-line-two years ago laptop
is now lodged at the Studio Six.
a weekly rent hotel
full of white trash fragmented families,
drug dealers, construction workers and bums like me.

I bought it for a laughable sum from a pawn shop employee
with amazing BO.

Where are you now, Brian Reese?
you seemed so in command of this device,
creating as many secret passwords as possible
so no-one, not even your wife, could get in without your permission.

I am in Brian.
I have deleted the passwords,
ignored the midget porn
and gotten on with my writing.

I am a good steward of this machine.

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