The Spider and the Cubicle

thumb tacked , tackled some say by the thumb, a bullied pencil pusher sitting upright at mid afternoon. so thin his ergonomic spinal robot as he leans back in his plastic office chair. peering around the corner, around the darkened tan hedges of the cubicled garden. now the carpet does not have thorns but the walls have thier prickled memo tacks. the aroma of a polynesian wilderness steams off of a coffee pot down the isle. he leans back further to a tipping point, he has a sense of expectation. on the wall there is a clock with very ordinary numbers and hands. he watches them and drifts a little around the room to evade the god of all square candled boxes. he loses himself momentarily in a thinly cast shadow from a window three cubicles down. like an ethereal black drape it reaches out to him with dilicate fingers it breaks up the mundane spaces. just outside of its grasp a silver cord shimmers, a tiny spider spins its fibrous faith carefully. its diligent silk web hung along the ceiling simple as a puritan church.