The Medium Is Tedium

I take a comfort break
and sit in a cubicle
in the fug of someone else’s farts
and wonder:
what if I never go back?

what if I leave my coat, my bag
my lunch box, my library book
my credit cards and cash
and simply walk away?

evade the cameras
and abandon the path
that brings me here
where every step is logical
and takes me further from the moment

when I nod off at my desk
and dream my English teacher asks:
John, can you give me
an example of a metaphor?

and I say:
there’s a shit-stained seat
in an office block
there’s a work station
out of Star Trek

plus a name badge
that can open doors
and all of them are mine, miss
is that what you want to hear?

for the medium is tedium
as I flush, then wash my hands
unfold a paper towel from the dispenser
wipe the residue of liquid soap
and return the stare of an old man’s eyes

while I pluck an errant hair
from my nostril
and sniff
and blink away a tear