In Rochester, on East Avenue,
A greyish soul treks off to work,
Throws back the coffee handily,
Sleepily pays the sales clerk-

His gaze is now transfixed by a tree
Colorful and flowering
Wishes he could stay outside
Alas, the tasks are towering…

He checks and sets the openness
Of his eyes in his image in the glass,
So as not
     to make it seem
          he’s as gone
               as he is;
Stumbles past the guard, plops down on his ***,

Planted thus, in front of his monitor,
In a cubicle, first floor, across from the lab,
Curses his fate for landing him here,
In this windowless slogging, dark and drab.