I come into work like a soldier that has been on leave.
It takes about a minute,
For me to daydream of a separate peace.
I stare at the stained shades of green and blue that cover my cubicle walls.
I gaze upon the ceiling and count the square white tiles to pass seconds that seem as if years.
The fluorescent bulbs drip water of dissolution and start to fill up my space.
Drowning in a cubicle made of disgrace from childhood mistakes.
I Paddle toward quitting time,
My only saving grace.
I speak as little as possible to the cattle they call employees surrounding me.
Their gazes appear empty as they somehow feel that their slaughter must be coming soon.
They have Given up and accepted nothing new or better.
They live in quiet desperation for something less or more.
I read whitman at my desk,
And realize I am a product of my own design.
Walking the halls,
Wishing for and demanding disaster.
A flood, a fire, a plague to end the day and this place.
I suspect one of these bureaucrats will eventually bring some gas and burn this place to the concrete jungle ground.
Friday is here.
Quitting time is near.
I paddle out of my cubicle and toward the front door.
Soon soaking in the last hours of sunlight,
And saying kiss my ass evermore.
Until when I see this place again,
It will be the early hour coming called monday morn.