Graveyard

Posted: May 9, 2011 in Burn Poetry

The cubicle walls open like fuzzy mandibles,
the gaping maw of a
gray-tinted Pacman chomping his way furiously towards the bonus round.
The post-heat-charcoal color
is mesmerizing.
Undulating.

My headache backstrokes towards dehydration.

It’s Tuesday in the real world.
In here, though,
time is frozen;
an electro-hourglass tilting in permanent spin cycle.

My head is packed full of angry
sizzling wires,
synaptic firing squads
aimed and firing away.

Someone two cubes away is singing
breathy
show tunes,
verbally waterboarding my mind.

This is euthanasia with corporate tax breaks.
This is ergonomically designed, soul-devouring chairs
that hungrily swallow minutes of your life down whole.

To my right the guy with the glasses looks like the living dead.
Overdosed on overtime
he appears to have expired around 11 P.M.
No coroner needed,
he resides now in the nether-regions of the graveyard shift
and even rigor mortis is too tired to set in.

The phone rings.
I answer.
Out there it’s still Tuesday.

FIN

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Comments
  1. Sue Tolles says:

    long shift huh? Nicely said

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