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Poetry

Office Sutra

Jason Ranek
issue six

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In this cubicle—cloistered half-cell—the day begins

with coffee, 

    black sacrament of saints.

Office light coats my desk, a yellow grit, changing

the color of my skin, 

   the balance of the body’s humors.

I commence the exercises prescribed by my director,

fatigued and brain fogged before I begin. 

       Each component 

of this workstation is gray modular, chitinous,

reconfigurable. I am docile and diligent,

“a valued team member,” 

      widget in a brilliant, sad machine.

 

In HR, my grievances are filed and wished away 

like dandelion seed. “It’s better this way,” 

I tell myself, staring at the windowless walls of a room

jaundiced by the light. 

 More coffee, collegial small talk

at 10 and 2:30. 

 Rapid-fire keystrokes, the conspicuous 

groan of a wall clock. 

Rolling up my sleeves now—

and time slowly grinds the sausage meat

of yet another day. I log out and the screens go black,

 

dark as the windows of an abandoned church.