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.
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