We'll never know the cause - which simple sum
of the factorial weight of all the years of his career -
each themselves laden with numbers; revenue,
(variance to budget), throughput divided by headcount
and then divided again by defect then by fiscal quarter,
was the one that set it off. Maybe
it was just the way each day's calendar was broken
into fifteen minute notches, each standing
for something someone else needed him to do.
Even the talk in the breakroom seemed to be algebra -
models of cars, their prices and horsepower,
or Sunday point spreads. Until, in one idle moment
by the vending machine after he had punched the proper buttons,
he reached the number that every solid has
when it must change state - and he ignited.
The security guards never once looked up
from their box scores to see his grew wool suit
flaring brightly as he swiped his badge.
Burning, he'd get in line for his morning coffee,
and, burning, he would watch the elevator numbers
tick up to his floor. No one said a word
about the smoke at the morning production meeting
or about the column of flame
that rose above the bathroom stall.
The only ones who became suspicious
were the cleaning crew,
but no one ever talks to them
except to say good night.
They would sweep small piles of ash
from his keyboard and chair each night,
so they were the only ones not surprised
when he was suddenly gone, altogether.
Mark Aiello
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