wordplayground

I am an underpaid cubicle dweller
in the treacherous warm bosom
of corporate America,
with full bennies
and zero tolerance drug policy.
I sit in air conditioned comfort
outside the luxury office
of the vice president
of all the vice presidents
with a window overlooking
the chemically-treated lawn.
Every day I arrive at 7:30
make pre-measured coffee
with pre-measured bottled water,
place the Wall Street Journal just so
on the corner of the mahogany credenza,
its value more than my car.
The business letters I type are flawless,
travel itineraries error free,
reports generated without fault.
I screen all phone calls,
creatively tell the most polite lies,
dress in conservative navy blue,
skirt mid-calf,
low-heeled shoes.
At 4:30 I drive my well-maintained
10 year old car from the parking lot
to my small apartment
in a working class neighborhood.
In my own small way
rebel the corporate structure
that provides me a living
as I type out this poem
on company time
to the beat of a wild wild heart.