the office job

you never made
the corner office.
you either quit or got fired
again
before you left
the maze of
mice cubicles.
there was very little cheese
to chase,
hard to break
the shackles
around your ankle.
you parked your car in the far
end of the football sized
lot, near
the trees.
not a window opened.
everyone was sick with something.
mostly fear.
but there was coffee,
there was happy hour,
the company picnic.
the new secretary at the front
desk,
who winked whenever
you passed her by.
the walls were painted a muted
mauve.
it kept us calm, I suppose,
not ever throwing
a chair
or a boss out the window.
we were sedated
by keyboards and tight shirts
with ties. by the quiet rugs,
the hum of the ac,
donuts on the counter
brought in by bill, or marge.
company spies.