Feb 2012
Day after day it’s the same view.
A tiny, boxed in, three sided wall no window.
There is nothing to this place, but a few self decorations, a picture of his little peewee football star,
His wife, and a Bob Marley poster.
It acts as a prison, only he is free to leave whenever he pleases.
But it’s the fact that he doesn’t that is startling, a prison for his mind perhaps.
These Grey walls feel as if they are closing in on him, inching closer together daily.
He doesn’t even know the time or date anymore, can’t even see his computer screen with all the work.
Stacks upon stacks of thick, confidence choking papers stacked as high as possible.
His eyes as the days endlessly go by become droopy and darkened, bloodshot.
Lost in all the quiet chaos of the cubicle, he forgot his wife’s birthday, also the day they met.
He dozes off briefly in his uncomfortably small chair, and finds himself at the dinner table.
His wife and son eat robotically, emotionless, his wife giving him a glance every so often.
The man takes a bite, an exhausting motion just to lift his arm up to his face.
Conversation attempts to be started by the wife, but he uses the automatic voice messaging system.
A blink, and dinner is over, he finds himself in the kitchen, yelling coming his way, smashing plates.
Broken Glass, and he turns it off, another flash; He finds himself lying in bed facing away from her.
She is heard sobbing, he turns it off……..
In the cube again, the autopilot working to full capacity, he works tirelessly, playing to the same beat.
Days go by, it seems, the stack of papers never gets smaller, yet the walls keep closing in.
Another fall into brief slumber and he is home, his son in front of him with a toy truck, no response.
The trance is so strong that he automatically signs the divorce papers; it had been coming of course.
Hours slide and days go by, time slips through his finger tips, unaware of the cries for his return.
The man stares expressionless at his stack of papers, the walls start spinning, the lights dimming.
He is out; comes to in his living room and something flying towards him. He reaches out, on his own.
The football that his varsity star son threw slips through his hands and smacks him in the face.
He comes to, and he is suddenly focused; only it took too long.
Too much time went by, stuck in his prosaic cube.
The next day he quit his job and spent the day with his son, trying to salvage the burnt remains.
The damage was forever done.
A tiny, boxed in, three sided wall no window.
There is nothing to this place, but a few self decorations, a picture of his little peewee football star,
His wife, and a Bob Marley poster.
It acts as a prison, only he is free to leave whenever he pleases.
But it’s the fact that he doesn’t that is startling, a prison for his mind perhaps.
These Grey walls feel as if they are closing in on him, inching closer together daily.
He doesn’t even know the time or date anymore, can’t even see his computer screen with all the work.
Stacks upon stacks of thick, confidence choking papers stacked as high as possible.
His eyes as the days endlessly go by become droopy and darkened, bloodshot.
Lost in all the quiet chaos of the cubicle, he forgot his wife’s birthday, also the day they met.
He dozes off briefly in his uncomfortably small chair, and finds himself at the dinner table.
His wife and son eat robotically, emotionless, his wife giving him a glance every so often.
The man takes a bite, an exhausting motion just to lift his arm up to his face.
Conversation attempts to be started by the wife, but he uses the automatic voice messaging system.
A blink, and dinner is over, he finds himself in the kitchen, yelling coming his way, smashing plates.
Broken Glass, and he turns it off, another flash; He finds himself lying in bed facing away from her.
She is heard sobbing, he turns it off……..
In the cube again, the autopilot working to full capacity, he works tirelessly, playing to the same beat.
Days go by, it seems, the stack of papers never gets smaller, yet the walls keep closing in.
Another fall into brief slumber and he is home, his son in front of him with a toy truck, no response.
The trance is so strong that he automatically signs the divorce papers; it had been coming of course.
Hours slide and days go by, time slips through his finger tips, unaware of the cries for his return.
The man stares expressionless at his stack of papers, the walls start spinning, the lights dimming.
He is out; comes to in his living room and something flying towards him. He reaches out, on his own.
The football that his varsity star son threw slips through his hands and smacks him in the face.
He comes to, and he is suddenly focused; only it took too long.
Too much time went by, stuck in his prosaic cube.
The next day he quit his job and spent the day with his son, trying to salvage the burnt remains.
The damage was forever done.
