Three short lines, and a lot is left unsaid. The poem seems to follow the end of a workday, when "office" gives way to "after work." The strange middle line, "whispering their lies to the ground," is where everything happens. The poem never says who is whispering, so the subject floats. It could be people leaving the building, or it could be the lies themselves, drifting downward as the day ends. The title, "Displacement," hints that something has been moved out of place: perhaps words, perhaps the speaker's own sense of self once the work persona is dropped.
The speaker's feeling isn't stated, but the poem suggests weariness and a quiet unease. Whispering to the ground, rather than to another person, feels private and a little defeated, like confessing to no one. The mood is hushed, flat, and slightly bitter. The tiny, spare form echoes that: the day's pretenses get discarded, and what's left is almost nothing.