This Box Has No Lid

cubicles

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.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poetry.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s