by on February 19, 2024 :: 0 comments

stationed at kissing desks
I feel the implode of anxiety
within this sweathouse of labor and woe
telephones chime
with the sweet rhythm of security
being enslaved can be a joy all its own
ungrateful maybe
but a yet to be defined pay scale
can mean so much in a bunker filled
with high school grads
through the fog and thunder
of these cackling underachievers
who slam file drawers in disgust
a voice sweet and low says onto me
hey you, wanna’ fuck

editors note:

Said no one from HR (we wish) ever. (We welcome Richard to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

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