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I was almost finished my orientation when I discovered we employed a poet. It was printed on a laminated floor map, in a font smaller than the restroom labels: ANNEX C. Human Resources, Payroll, Procurement, Poetry. I walked to the annex, stood in the hall, and watched my reflection in the elevator doors. The poet’s office had no window, only a rectangular light that hummed. That, and a corkboard pinned with torn memo corners: “Whereas,” “Therefore,” “Kind regards.”

I had come in as a data analyst, learning what made other people’s numbers misbehave. I asked my manager.

“The poet is legacy,” she said. “From the merger, before my time.”

“What does the poet do?”

“You know,” she said, “the same thing we do. Aligns outcomes.”

…