I wonder if I’ll have some money soon,
to calm my nerves,
as I walk up and down, and up and down my dead cube room.
The wide window looks out,
upon a city of grey filaments.
Tiny people and their machines, moving in ant-like industry.
Are these people rich, or struggling too?
All of these people, trapped,
in invisible hamster-wheels to live in concrete boxes, like this.
Putting products in boxes,
trees in boxes.
Animals in tins.
Where is the land?
In a box, with a plough, in a museum.
It’s all managed now.