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.

Report Story

byVictoria_Lucas© 5 comments/ 1816 views/ 1 favorites
1 Pages:1

Please Rate This Submission:

Please Rate This Submission:

  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
Please wait
by Anonymous

If the above comment contains any ads, links, or breaks Literotica rules, please report it.

There are no recent comments (5 older comments) - Click here to add a comment to this poem or Show more comments or Read All User Comments (5)

Add a

Post a public comment on this submission (click here to send private anonymous feedback to the author instead).

Post comment as (click to select):

You may also listen to a recording of the characters.

Preview comment

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar: