the crucible of a cubicle… [__]

the crucible of a cubicle… [__]

‘cubicle’
an interrogation of flies-
I sit at my desk
cigarette, half cocked, not lit
ashtrays, ashtrays are long gone my friend
papers, semi-arranged, by year, by slot, desktop
or what the cat lady dragged in-
priorities rise and fall like a tide
always coming in, always high tide
I would like to think I made something of a life
wife, kids, but no, here I am, here I am in this-
this prison to pension, this desk.

notes… in my mind this is double edged, I pictured an old tortured soul sitting behind a desk somewhere in the 70s with stacks of things on all corners, almost a hoarder situation, kind of a noir comic vibe, I don’t smoke, never did, but that vibe, the angry, gritty, smoker stuck in a corner with no smokes, ashtray an anachronism laughing, ending a life where you fought so hard for truth and found naught… just what was in my head when I wrote this. oh, and yeah, in a way reflective of me, in my newish shiny office, I have a window, and that makes me the happiest performing animal in the zoo I call my office home…

juxtapose / traffic

juxtapose / traffic

‘Why is traffic not moving?’ sipping my coffee, nearly on gulps, a swig of spring water, the minutes turn to fifteen, fifteen feet maybe moved, on the turnpike, no exit within sight, I fiddle with my radio, adjust the tunes, tap the wheel, pretend to be happy with the distraction, and I am, for at least an instant, then I realize, coffee gone and downed, halfway through the spring water… I look up and focus for once time in an hour…
I am stuck in traffic behind a truck, carrying porta-pottys, the irony- not being able to go and not being able to go.
I guess I will have to hold it… (and my frustration)
.