A crowded conference room
The lady speaking
Drones like
Charlie Browns teacher
Trying to impart
The new system
Wherein they intend
To get us to do
Our supervisors jobs

I sit in back
Near the air conditioner
It partially drowns out
Her southern monotone
I write
If you loved me
You’d kill me
On my name card
Show it to Tom
He frowns..
Shakes his head no

I lean back
Open a book
Reading Bukowski
Further disengaging
Jeff looks over
You suck he says
Jealous that
I have the book

We both wish
That we could write
Like Bukowski
Guttural
Letting it flow
Feeling free

The speaker continues
Droning on
Looking around
I see the dead eyes
No hope
This must be
What Hell is like
The dead stare blankly
Listening to
Inane banter

I return to my book
Hoping to drown out
The droning
Throbbing in my skull
Dreaming of escape
From the dead around me

 

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