The Spider And The Cubicle Poem by nathan martin

thumb tacked, tackled some say by the thumb,
a
bullied pencil pusher sitting upright at mid afternoon.
so thin his ergonomic spinal robot as he leans back
in his plastic office chair.

peering around the corner, around the darkened tan
hedges of the cubicled garden.

now the carpet does not have thorns but the walls
have thier prickly memo tacks.

the aroma of a polynesian wilderness streams
off of a coffee pot down the isle. expensive coffee
beans fill the cups of grumbling employees.

four auburn walls suround them.

they are speckeled with plaster and paint at times
he watches them and drifts a little around
the room to evade the god of all square
candled boxes.

he loses himself momentarily in a thinly cast shadow
from a window three cubicles down.

like a ethereal black drape it reaches out to him with
dilicate fingers it breaks up the mundane spaces.

just outside of its grasp a silver cord shimmers,
a tiny spider spins its fibrous faith carefully.

its diligent silken oriental web hung along the ceiling
simple as a puritan church.