Custodian - March 7 2024

 

Custodian

March 7 2024

After hours

the lights burn

on empty offices

abandoned corridors.

The copy machine is at rest

computer screens are dark.

Chairs

are pushed back from their desks

where they were left at closing time,

5 sharp

for the clock-watching office drones.

The cramped cubicles

look like still life paintings,

where the knick-knacks and coffee mugs

and photographs of loved ones,

the sentimental objects

worse-for-wear stress balls

and pen-filled tumblers,

sit in the half-light

like a declaration

of personal space.

A lone custodian

is mopping the floor,

head down

contentedly bored;

back and forth

almost hypnotically

steadily down the hall.

The quiet is uncanny.

The serenity

after a day of urgency

and social tension,

of friendly banter,

unwanted attention,

tasteless jokes.

Of the manager

who should never have been promoted

and whom everyone ignores,

strutting self-importantly

but failing to notice

the scornful snorts and eye-rolls.

And of the hotly contested decisions

that will or break,

about which the rest of the world

couldn’t care less.

He has the place to himself,

enjoys the peace

and leisurely pace.

In the cleansing calm of night

he sets things straight;

making order from chaos,

and making sure

to turn out the lights

before heading for home.