S 45 degrees 36 minutes 20 seconds 135.7 feet

by Andy Schuck

He sits in an office, any office
as far as the reader is concerned. Any office
trying to be like the other great offices of this
and other great American corporations,
an office that spells d-u-h-h.
He sits and types and loses his mind
in the same 9 o’clock cycle, with
the same super hits of radio blah blah
swelling his head to a humid lump.

The dj calls it THE GREATEST MUSIC EVER MADE!
Our mate hates hyperbole. He   sits
 and types.             Types

sits.                    Eats.
            Shits.          Takes
his time
         with it
  like everybody else.

Drives bus of insane from soft seat copying legal descriptions.
Grabs another file, sees pile is small,
knows to slow pace,
type it twice, keep his eyes off his finger tips
(he thinks challenge yourself! though he lives
against an hourly wage); he sees
carpeted cubicle walls lining the inside
of his head with transparent wires jutting out
in all directions, barely perceptible from
a distance:

Got a class today.
Got a book to read at lunch.
Listen to the college jazz station.
Take five minutes in the sun
imagining the leaves weave the station’s crazy horns and bass,
fantastic drums.
Back to work, coupla minutes late.
Wishes he could live
as Coltrane played.