Connecticut driving means
crossing many city lines,
passing many signs that say

“Welcome To The City Of (Your Name Here).”
Whatever line you cross,
always one view from the driver’s seat:

a lot of empty mills.
A lot of empty cubicles.
A lot of emptied mills

that were filled for a while with cubicles
and now all are empty again.
Without the signs to correct me

you’d think you were in
Emptyville for
three hours straight,

except for the roads not being empty,
ever.  The whole state
is going somewhere,

downhill, uphill,
rolling over lines and passing those signs
that say “Welcome To Fill In The Blank.”

There’s a networking event
for out of work professionals in every town.
All those “Hello My Name Is…” name tags

on smart blouses
and sharp lapels,
all those resumes that say,

“Seasoned financial services professional with experience
in all aspects of the industry. Driven by results,
solid leader and team player; versatile;

able to hit the ground running.” All those eyes
on the eyes of the people behind the tables,
taking those resumes under consideration.

Later, all those name tags crumpled
on the floors of all those
once-affordable cars

holding just enough expensive gas
for the drive back across
city lines, past city signs —

“Welcome To Once Upon A Time,
Welcome To Just Passing Through.”
Uphill, downhill, north, south,
driving through Connecticut,

past all those refurbished mills
and the echoing cubicle farms
with the department nameplates on the walls:

“Accounts Receivable, Accounts Payable,
Legal,
Human Resources.”

If you find yourself in Connecticut
in an empty office building, it’s perfectly OK
to switch those signs around

if you’re so inclined; it’s not like anyone
who comes here after you
is going to know the difference.