Nine Hour Hum

This is the housed professional that envelops day to day,
complete with foreign coffee mugs
that denote a person's age.

My enclosure has three walls, none of which imprison
or echo breaths or words or calls,
beyond my own derision.

And when I need a ladder to climb from 'neath fluorescents,
there is a door that goes by card,
with knowing bulb candescent.

The handle is a question mark on this caffeinated tankard.
It scolds me raw with rising steam,
and leers with spices haggard.

It insists I am an older man despite my tragic youth.
Its years I've yet to cultivate,
their wisdom yet imbued.

But it keeps me woke and wary of the passing workplace fellow,
their baskets filled with sugared filth
that cater to my mellow.

I'll take it to the cafeterium and say hello while going,
content with thoughts of politics
in offices worth strolling.

There I will converse anew with friends and strangers still,
happy with my hoodie on,
and trying not to spill.

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patriciajj's picture

Love'n this. Briliant work.

Love'n this. Briliant work.