The Cubicle Men

Wage servants sit glued to the glowing
Of the monitors, manipulating
Electrons of Industry.

Inside, spleen gives way to toxins
Untouched by liver, imbibed
After terms of indenture.

In deeper, indivisible selves wither,
Except for the few that forge fearsomeness there.


P.F. Hawkins

2008-08-22

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