Work

Late again for work today, can't find a place to park.

Sweet Lila, the slinky receptionist, brings brownies every day.

Since last years Xmas party, when we danced a heated Samba,

she learned so well to lie for me, it keeps me from disaster.

Ensconced inside a four foot cubby, computer is my tombstone,

clock slows down each afternoon. Enveloped by a sterile fog,

fluorescent flicker triggers a narcoleptic slumber,

head down upon my desk.

I'm waiting in a waiting room, an empty train station

in the middle of the night.

Dreaming of misplaced memos, in-box piling up,

forgotten appointments, report is due tomorrow,

was to be my magnum opus, now lost in a labyrinth of rooms.

Which door is where the conference meets?

Soaked in sweat, memory fails and the question lingers.

Would someone at the coffee klatch know the answer?

Which way to New Zealand or Hawaii, where can I find adventure?

Can't remember any names of all those faceless faces.

May I collect a paycheck for work I haven't done?

Can't wait for lunch, grand highlight of the day,

must find the nearest bathroom, but who is crying on the crapper?

Could be Fred who loves the horses, whose numbers failed the audit.

I keep buzzing for the elevator, when it finally does arrive

I step right into empty space cold spray upon my face.

A torrential downpour gushes forth. I try to bend my knees,

as I come crashing down on my hardwood parquet floor.

Milton P. Ehrlich .