Thin
The office is full of murmurs and the sound
of the traffic outside and the tapping that my
cubicle neighbor is making between her nails
and her keyboard. None of this is intrusive,
and none of it delights. It's grey like the carpet,
the filing cabinets, the ceiling and the sky,
and I, I would rather be somewhere warmer
and in bloom, some earthy spot, and removed
from the plastic and laminate and the tapping
of keys, some place to breathe more deeply.
I've got places that need filling and hands
that feel too clean, and the only soft treading
of feet or the occasional beep fails me, fails
to resonate, fails to wake me from sleep.
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