Office Hope Poem by Max Reif

A reasonable human being
surely ought to burn down
his or her house
every five years or so,

when the proliferation of paper
becomes so suffocating that,
cleaning one's office, a few sheets
go into the waste basket

while the rest join dozens
of piles mentally labelled
'To File' or 'Uncertain Whether To Save or Throw Out'.

Writing this, a thought comes
like a plant growing through cement:
some people may have
file draws that actually function
and still have room in them,

and I feel like a sinner
in hell, looking up, feeling
for the first time, hope.