Cubicle

There is no birdsong in this place,
No humming of bees,
No bawling of young calves,
There is no sunlight,
Only artificial flourescent glow,
There is just the sound of human confusion:
The machine gun attack of the 10-key punch,
The hissing of fans that cool the computer
That drives everyone who works in this space,
There is the sound of the telephone demanding an answer,
The voice who wants to speak to the person in charge
Of the medicine cabinet or the key to the safe,
Who gets told "No, we don't have anyone here by that name,"
Or, "She is out of town until next year,"
There is the blank stare at the signs on the door:
Not Hiring, No Solicitation, No Trespassing,
But still they come, the barkers and salesmen
Telling us "Hey, did you know the key is in the door?"
We tell them "Yes, it's that way for security purposes,"
Then go back to our FedEx fedup business,
Talking about our alternate universes and wishing we were there.