grind

clunking along, under fluorescent light
someone sits opposite
sipping an energy drink
eyes shifting from one side
to the other
their gaze pausing
lingering
on the title
of an open magazine:
politicians lie
it says

ouside
for a moment
are boxed in offices
row upon row
inside
tiny chairs, and tiny desks, and tiny computers
are empty
except one
where a slumped figure
melts into a cluttered desk
a light flickers
it is dark, then light

clunk, clunk, clunk
we stop
and are flooded by men in grey suits
their necks stoop forward
and all but one
return to tiny screens
held in their hands

 

 

 

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