Caught amid the masses of a white-collared culling
herded toward the cabinet
filed like so much busywork.
This Cesarean in progress
birthed with a cornflower-blue noose (a seven-fold four-in-hand)
buries his resistance beneath a stack of papers labeled due.
Silent, buttoned-down, productive
a victim of an apathetic generation
and of jealous neighborly competition
watches, waits & wonders "Why
won't you try something new?"
He is aware of the dangers that lurk in the unknown
and in knowing, stays safe
standing still.
His noose tightens, binding
reminding, if not now, when?
Rarely do members of his species venture outside the safety of the cubicle.
For the sake of conversation, the herd gathers
near the bottled-watering hole.
They speak in whispers
but when the lion is away
they roar
with laughter, carefree
swapping instant messages and stories
of sex
and
of sports.
He marks his territory with a 4 inch x 4 inch photo and a brass nameplate.
The bars on his cage are made of glass
to offer a view
of more cages.
He bears neither horns nor wings.
He's aged, but not evolved.
He's scared of his shadow, and of his reflection.
Soft busybody fingers type eighty words-per-minute, fully aware
of the impending disaster.
Unable to conjure the strength to roam the wild,
he's become the target
another hopeless victim
of this white-collared cleansing.
herded toward the cabinet
filed like so much busywork.
This Cesarean in progress
birthed with a cornflower-blue noose (a seven-fold four-in-hand)
buries his resistance beneath a stack of papers labeled due.
Silent, buttoned-down, productive
a victim of an apathetic generation
and of jealous neighborly competition
watches, waits & wonders "Why
won't you try something new?"
He is aware of the dangers that lurk in the unknown
and in knowing, stays safe
standing still.
His noose tightens, binding
reminding, if not now, when?
Rarely do members of his species venture outside the safety of the cubicle.
For the sake of conversation, the herd gathers
near the bottled-watering hole.
They speak in whispers
but when the lion is away
they roar
with laughter, carefree
swapping instant messages and stories
of sex
and
of sports.
He marks his territory with a 4 inch x 4 inch photo and a brass nameplate.
The bars on his cage are made of glass
to offer a view
of more cages.
He bears neither horns nor wings.
He's aged, but not evolved.
He's scared of his shadow, and of his reflection.
Soft busybody fingers type eighty words-per-minute, fully aware
of the impending disaster.
Unable to conjure the strength to roam the wild,
he's become the target
another hopeless victim
of this white-collared cleansing.
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