This Box Has No Lid


3:31 and the office feels the same,
An unseen click, click, click one cube down.
Someone walks by with a permanent frown,
Not so much typing as clipping nails again.

Within this box most days of the week,
Over there a low murmur of voices.
Every day so devoid of all choices,
Bound by the clock before we sneak.

To the door, the hand barely touching twelve,
Driving home with thoughts of tomorrow.
Days without end, it is time that we borrow,
All of our hopes and dreams we blindly shelve.

This entry was posted in Poetry.

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