CUBICLE


We sit in our cubicles
With our morning jolt
Push and fudge numbers,
Plan and poke
Wait for ideas to explode
Wait and wait and wait
A breathless trek
With weary legs
A consumptive deck
Stacked against electric walls
Believing in some wayward call

Everything imagined is not the truth
Toss in your change at the slipshod booth
Wait for the all clear
Then rev and scoot

The horizon behind us
In our insipid rush
A master plan
A sardonic clan
Flying down the highway
Gotta make that cash
Breathing upon the wayward path-

Where are we going again?

© 2016 Mark Richard Prime

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