Cubicle

Jan 29 2020

The walled cubicle

consists of a cluttered desk

a swivel chair

a company computer.

Its soft walls

are some sort of beige textured material.

Reminders are pinned to it,

along with an expired calendar

a few family photos

an inspirational poster

where a frizzled cat hangs tough.

Straightening up from the chair

you can see over the low partition;

a sea of heads,

some, hard at work

but most stifling a yawn,

waiting for the end of the day

the week

the month.

And dropping back down

you feel enclosed once again,

somewhere between

protected

and claustrophobic.

But sound still penetrates,

barely softened

by the low padded walls.

As well as bad office coffee

stale air

ozone's acrid scent

of electricity burning,

too much perfume

from the lady next door.

Most of the waking day

in this small fixed space

where you feel yourself safe

as well as confined.

Your cubicle, you say,

like a declaration of ownership

claiming this place for yourself.

Where the picture of your wife, the favourite mug

might be seen as acts of resistance.

The small personal touch

you will quickly box-up, one day

before security hustles you out.

I really have no idea where this poem came from. I was in the mood to write. I sat down at the keyboard, instead of with pen and paper. This image of a cubicle farm occurred to me, and I started to riff on it. Stream of consciousness did the rest. Even though I've never worked in a place like that, and have almost always been my own boss. I wonder if the identity police would call this cultural appropriation?!!