A Real Job

This sterile trap,
This corporate limbo,
Each day the same,
Data entry, data transfer,
Clicking and ticking of keys
In such great volume it sounds
Like heavy rain on the cold, cracked concrete.
This thin gray carpeted cubicle wall
Surrounds my exhibit room as I wait for lunch,
While white collars and other passers by
Look in at my simulated habitat.
Two frames, one with my wife,
The other with both of us, and the two kids
Adorn the otherwise light gray, fluorescent lit
Ten by ten square that is my territory.
I don't want to wait thirty years to retire
When I could have a job instead.