For a Laid-Off Worker

by AMY MILLER

For months the plant survived you. 
I brought it water every week,
its thin neck and fine tassel of leaves 
alone in your empty office, stubborn

in its little pink pot. Your name 
had been torn from the doorway
in a hall webbed with cords. 
One room was a reliquary of chairs, 

black seats and elbows touching, 
some turned to each other, some standing 
at the window as if imagining the drop. 
There was no one I could trust 

not to throw the plant in the trash. 
One day I hid it under my coat 
and walked it out through the lobby. 
The security guard never looked up.