Entering an enclave;
an encased little city
in the sky.

I must appear the same
today as yesterday

blue suit, white stripes
a corporate tiger
black shoes, wing tips
an ostrich
because I cannot fly.

I smell the fragrance of the artificial;
emotions set in stone.

I brush against the texture of coats on
the wall, the building up of artifacts.

I can feel the artistry and the
attitudes of the painters

templates of the care taken on both
the good and bad days.

I hear a cough move quickly
through cubicles; a contagion,
a protest song.

If I stand still at the top for long enough
I can see the patterns of movement
beneath me.

I can see atoms dancing to the bumps
and bruises of a life lived in an enclave
in the sky
as if it is a choreography
as if they are living out a plan

but I know there is no plan
only reactions; being set in stone.