The cubicle is the cuticle
of the modern work day.
A thin membrane separating
the fleshy part of work from
the erosive atmosphere
of the day. When we smell
the lunch of a coworker or
when we hunch over
the phone with a creditor,
and when a loving whisper of
goodbye by phone or email
doesn’t cover our hurt,
our cubicle splinters and cracks
from the daily pressure of rough
trade around us, and we are
surprised not to emerge
bloodied as a bruised
finger-nail bed.
http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/CITN/citn52.htm
