Talking To Empty Cubicles

At gray fabric offices, cubicles divide us— turn us into refuges with mock privacy, as overheard conversations drip from lips endlessly smacking. Sometimes it seems insanity squared— nothingness randomly speaking in tongues to cubicles with no one there. We thumb tack individuality loosely to coarse fabrics— arms stretched out from wall to wall, as mouths open to mirrored silences we never scream.