Sometimes when my cubicle seems particularly small or the thought of the 27th floor is giving me vertigo, I write poetry. So that the guy across the aisle doesn’t notice, I write on otherwise discarded, preused post-its.
My office poems are pretty short. I’ll post at least one a day.
Paper planes slip over cube walls:
love letters to our mutual boredom.
Yours complex like B52s,
mine a little crumpled.
