And there are mornings, evenings, afternoons,
Stretching thin to nothing.
I don’t count them now.
And there is tick tock of time that no longer sounds on the clock,
The thrum thrum hum of the copier that inks me in,
Time sheet scanned and sent.
Another day sold and spent.
Stacked up, sliced thin in piles of papers,
Matt, flat, mute to touch.
My hands no longer sing.
And there are the words I do not own,
That crawl cursor-crossed on the blind-blink page.
I administer the hours,
Deaf-dull with someone else’s message droning.
And of course there are pleasantries,
Coffee rounds squared up on wonky trays,
Warm words said coldly with a smile.
There are cookie crumbs and hole-punch strays,
Chewed pen ends and paper curls.
There are minutes spilled,
Mopped away discreetly.
This is normal nothing now.
You live this.
The life that goes unloved in.
And you tell me there is a time,
For something else,
For dreams, laughter and the somber stamp of dancing feet.
You tell me there are days of sunshine,
Caught in a catalogue,
But they are always past or long-coming,
Used up for this,
Waiting on this.
I cannot wait.
I will not buy this.