The a/c exhales cold air, incessantly,
above the door:
I breathe relief, and welcome the Machine.
LCD screens, wires and towers—
papers, files and phones: tools
to make (“more”) money, out of thin air.
The summer sun is not the power source – the soft electric
hum is the Voice. It
comes from, somewhere, deep inside.
Temperatures rise outside, unbearable earth.
Heat presses against
the windows and the exit door. Freon fills my lungs.
My skin crawls
and chills my fingernails slowly: Mortuary sanctuary.
Coffee, coffee, coffee…to stay awake.
“Sell, sell, sell” the old man echoes.
Brightness fills every inch of glass to kill.
We work together, like ice:
In cubes, we sit still
and silently call, like atomic clocks. Our bodies frozen
under this electric light.
I’m blind in this fluorescence: a milky maze mind.
My sunglasses only arouse suspicion. No safe
shadow to hide my soul. Plastic black phones are weapons or bones;
attached below where no one can see.
I try calling out, to reach
…on the outside. No Answer.
Death says, ‘work to live.’ A hopeless smile
caresses His face.
When it’s time, I leave everyone behind,
turning off the light.