But when you leave,
a world ends. Not the world
but a certain one—your accomplishments,
the friends you thought you had,

whatever you said in the back of a cab
or, later an Uber, years and years
of lunches in the shared fridge.

The shared air. The abstract carpet.
The cherry veneer paneling
of the conference room where
important things were said.

If you ever went back,
you couldn’t go back. Gone
before you were gone. Did you
believe what they said or didn’t say,
what you thought you heard?

That you would not be forgotten?
That it meant something, your work?
That you were ever a person?

The light flicks on; the cleaning woman
vacuums around the chair that holds
your laptop in a cubicle, with a Post-it.

You meant to give it back to a person,
but she wasn’t there. You had to go.
Tomorrow, your note will be removed,
your laptop cleaned, refreshed,

empty as a paper cup.