John Anderson - The Cube Farm

I stopped not for gas, but a cup of coffee to go.
Coffee was my morning habit, though my stomach wouldn't have missed it this morning.
Soon I was parked on the charcoal lot between orange lines, passing shiny cars as I walked toward the tall glass entryway.

Staring stone gargoyles flanking the doors aggravated my tension. Irritated more by the gleaming floor that clicked as I walked across it.

The elevator was like a prison cell escorting me to my floor.
Blank eyes above conservative suits and skirts marched in and out as I waited.
I watched the light above me move like a lit fuse.
A hushed bell rang, like it were signaling me for the next round, and I exited onto a long carpeted gangplank that led to the waiting room of the office. I passed to the long handle of the frosted door and entered the cube farm. Eyes, twisting their heads between the fabric walls, peeked at me as I marched.

The silence was deafening.

I would not be anonymous long.

He adjusted a button on his suit coat then shuffled papers above his desk. He placed them in a perfect pile in front of him.
We were two stumps, bookends to the papers, opposing each other.
The breath of his words wheezed out, like stoking a fire that was underneath me.
He told me they were letting me go, and his office felt even emptier, the pile more perfect.

I left him in mid-stoke, and walked the aisle to empty my cube, feeling concern from the anxious eyes of the Cube Farm.

John Anderson

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cube-farm/