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Literature Text
The office smells of warm paper,
heat from the printer
permeating the air,
fluorescent lights above
gifting me with a
pounding headache.
Fleetwood Mac
is on the radio, competing
without success against
the scanner’s rumble.
A song ends, a page jams,
the phone rings, and I think,
“Only six hours until five o'clock
and four days until Friday.”
heat from the printer
permeating the air,
fluorescent lights above
gifting me with a
pounding headache.
Fleetwood Mac
is on the radio, competing
without success against
the scanner’s rumble.
A song ends, a page jams,
the phone rings, and I think,
“Only six hours until five o'clock
and four days until Friday.”
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NaPoWriMo, Poem #7
Not many “office setting” poems out there, or poems about the workforce in general, so I decided to write one. As you can tell, I have a very thrilling job. 
© 2015 - 2024 QuirkyCuriousBex
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