I stand in the cold
silence of after hours and
ponder how many days
my father spent hammering
away on a keyboard until
the desktop clock finally
reached day’s end.

I wonder if my boxed corporate cell-
asylum where I spend my days
staring limply at a screen
resembles the cubicle
that fostered my father’s
final moments?

My fingers caress these black keys
like a silk pillow-
a cradle for his
heavy head that fell
forward, plea recorded
by a frantic stream of characters
as that final gasp of air
rushed into his lungs.

He was surrounded by people
but so alone as everyone
concentrated on project plans
and email- fixed in their
corporate containers
as my father is now fixed
in a black urn.

Everyone has gone
and I linger
for a moment,
feel an affinity
with the man who
never came home.