Falling.
I see a blur of crimson;
an inferno of rage,
and taste salty tears.

I see a blur of crimson
reflected on the slick glass;
the taste of salty tears
masking my afflictions.  

Reflections on the slick glass
of an office building near Queens
mask the afflictions.
But it’s hard to escape reality.

The office building near Queens
becomes my prison.
It’s hard to escape the reality
of my monotonous task.

My prison
is swarming with ringing phones.
The monotony of my task
causes me distress.

I’m swarmed with ringing phones.
But the grief of giving the bad news
causes me such distress;
it is too much for my soul to bear.

The grief of giving the bad news
to a mother of six
is too much for my soul to bear.
Burned, I tell her, shattered.

To the mother of six,
my words are like a broken record.
Burned, I tell her, shattered;
there was nothing left to save.

My words are like a broken record
fed to me by the suffocating bureaucracy:
there was nothing left to save.
Falling.