I’m an office worker working. On what? For what? I haven’t a clue.
The tapping of the keyboard calms me. It makes me feel mysteriously close to you.
As long as you shut up, we’ll be alright.
And there will be work tomorrow. And sleep tonight.
The carpet is quiet and the bills are due.
Work conversation is all-important, if the words are meaningless and few.
You know in an instant what they want at meetings:
Nothing, really. What matters is the subtext of those casual greetings
And the accountant’s sudden appearance.
Until then, block out the sighs and the coughs. Errands at lunch. Life’s dull dance.
They were about to get fired.
And now they’re gone.
But who is doing their work?
The office black hole. You go on, you go on.
Fluorescent, flora, fluorescent, flora, fluorescent, flora, fluorescent.
I’m an office worker working. I’m a champion. Why do you ask me, “what’s new?”
Everything is new. The moment that just passed is new. What do you want me to say or do?
I am about to invent stars. The newspaper, the password, the paper in the air, over there.
And now, once again, the questions: How was your weekend? What’s new?
Do you know what I did? Tell me if you do.
