Six minute poem, for no good reason

[demiurgent]

Office choked with papers and cups, desk crowded and piled and closing
no window on the door or wall no light except from the buzzing tube
over my head, just me and the machine.

The phone light blinks on and off, a red bar across the top. On and off,
on and off, again and again at 75 BPM like a clock going too fast,
cutting a quarter out of every second.

Too fast, too fast, there should be more time,
over my head, just me and the machine.

Joking at the lunch -- do you know? I asked do you know?
do you know that I have spent more of my last ten years of life
in that little room than anywhere else?

News comes in on the screen sitting in front of my eyes - news
and distractions and orders and porn, merging together and blurring
the lines of work and play and endurance.

Too fast, too fast, there should be more time,
over my head, just me and the machine.

The fluroescent tube flickers and buzzes, beginning the six week long
process of failure I won't get around to reporting to maintenance
until it's almost gone nova and collapsed.

They'll carry me out, just a sack of dead weight, and dump the papers
and cups into plastic bags they toss or recycle, clearing the way
for the next me to come and live and work.

Too fast, too fast, there should be more time,
over my head, just me and the machine.