This cubicle, your modern day mending wall,
has frosted your model of living outside of descending
metal coffins in glass towers. Coffee break is always at 9.45,
one compartment of cream, two of sugar,
a swig of bittersweet coveting at the window,
and pitter, patter, let’s get at’er. Internal mail
gets the yellow, couriers the red. It’s a tube, it’s a box,
it’s an envelope, rush. Each corner of your day
cemented with double-sided tape. The train
is your lateral and last office, the one where we can
be alone with everyone else. You drop your wallet
and tiny cubicles of you glut the tops of galoshes.
You stash each part back into its proper container:
the bank cards, the insurance, the spare key,
the photo of your wife, your kids. Then me.