Cubiclism

“What is that paleness on your cheeks?”

“Oh nothing serious – a minor case of cubiclism”.

 

I walk down the same street

Every day. 

I invent ways to avoid the common sights.

I turn left instead of right, 

I walk an extra block; I circle. 

Yet my feet deliver me

To the same spot. 

I see the bleak façade 

Of my office building.

“Office building” – the words

give me cramps.

Together, they frame my world

And drain it of ambition.

 

I bring my hand, holding the access card,

Closer to the door. 

I pause involuntarily. 

Maybe right this second

There’ll be a big storm. All electricity

Will disappear, chaining the entire building

With blissful inactivity.

Maybe something will happen

 Preventing me from going in.

 

I’m at the elevator.

I stare at the button, unwilling

To make a move. But the doors open.

“What floor?” asks the man inside.

I look at him, dumb-founded,

As if he asked me when I expect

Apocalypse to come. 

“Nine, please”, I finally squeeze out.

My voice sounds foreign –

So thin and uncertain.

Chrome doors slide together.

All of a sudden, I develop

Claustrophobia. My palms start sweating.

 

I come near my desk. 

Before me is the endless

Puzzle shape of cubicles.

Looks like Tetris, I think to myself. 

The heaps of papers dominate

My work space. I call it my “creative chaos”.

But it’s just chaos now. 

The chair is facing me,

Mockingly welcoming. 

Here I will spend the next

Eight hours of my life.

Bound by a cubicle.