Short Sweathouse Poems

stationed at kissing desks 
I feel the implode of anxiety
within this sweathouse of labor and woe

telephones chime
with the sweet rhythm of security
being enslaved can be a joy all its own

ungrateful maybe
but a yet to be defined pay scale
can mean so much in a bunker 
filled with high school grads

through the fog and thunder 
of these cackling underachievers
who slam file drawers in disgust
a voice sweet and low says onto me
hey you wanna' f---...

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