On Being In Boxes

Poem By Virginie Guillemette

Hard walled and
White
ON GUARD against
errant beams of light,
my cubicle is
half my home
but at night.

Memo to Self,
in Memorandum
a small death everyday
to be slave in return for pay
work, ALL work
and no play.

and all the dull boys
Jacks on their hills
work and work to pay the bills
to buy all the right toys
hope to play with the big boys.
and I sit quiet
in a box
I make no noise.

'shhhhhhhhhh'
my machines
hum and whisper
they say 'don't worry sister...
you won't go far'.

Comments about On Being In Boxes

One seems to be in that rarefied set, where one fights, then that set appears something old. A cubicle. Told modern way.
A very fine write, Virginie. The last stanza closes the piece perfectly. Don


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What a fine and shining

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i am afraid of your ghost
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hiding everywhere.

There's Too Much Blame To Be Passed Around...

there's too much blame to be passed around
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