Metamorphosis into Bureaucrat

My hips are a desk.

From my ears hang

chains of paper clips.

Rubber bands form my hair

My breasts are wells of mimeograph ink.

My feet bear casters.

Buzz. Click.

My head

is a badly organized file.

My head is a switchboard

where crossed lines crackle

My head is a wastebasket

of worn ideas.

Press my fingers

and in my eyes appear credit and debit

zing. Tinkle.

My navel is a reject button

From my mouth issue canceled reams.

Swollen, heavy, rectangular

I am about to be delivered

of a baby

xerox machine.

File me under W

because I once

was

a woman.