office noir

murmuring opens the scene
a dull white light flickers
above a cubicle on the corner.
the view is
pixilated
digitized
beige and grey.
a solitary figure
hunches over a cup
of day-old joe.
geometrics strewn in black
and white,
low and high--
it's the 21st c. landscape
the 9-5 skyline of
inbox and outbox
and everywhere in between.
our protagonist sits between bars
of black shadow cast by venetian blinds,
punctuating ripples of burgeoning cellulite
and wafts of smoke
from the fax machine.
Femme fatale isn't sexy any more
she's cancer
and carpal tunnel,
and back pain--
it's lame
it's lame
it's lame--
and all the action is going down
the monetized
prosperized
sold-out
drain.