Idle Hands, a new poem.

fluorescent bulbs feign sunlight,
burning melanomas
on pasty hands
and moth-eaten suits.

pupils dilate,
hairs raise,
the air conditioning hums a melancholy

click, click, click.
these idle hands make noises
appeasing ears of leadership long deaf.

whizz, whizz, whizz
to unattended boxes.
gossip and vitriol
flood an instant message,
spreading cancer through cubicle walls.

dial tones,
busy signals,
beep, beep, beep.
mechanical messages left on human machines.

All for want of a paycheck
to buy the laptop,
flat-screen, high-def, LED, shiny thing

just so I can ignore you
a little bit


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