by Steven J. Serafiani

sitting in my chair with a broken lift lever,
listening to the sound of humming printers,
of faxes chirping,
of coffee pouring,
of water coolers bubbling,
of my heart palpitations thumping,
I’ve got to get out of here,
this isn’t one of those workplace musings,
or a 9 to 5 blues tune,
I’ve got to get the fuck out of here,
keep driving,
maybe to Wyoming,
just somewhere without anyone knowing,
selfish but truthful,
I do not feel free,
cause it’s for those greenbacks,
40 hours in,
and yet my wallet is lighter than when I took it off the rack and twirled the tag.