Smokey Grey Blinds

I'm in my box of sweat and toil,
Bland beige walls and banal blue carpet,
Trodden thin by weary feet.
Slightly tattered posters, curling corners
Pinned precariously upon the wall.

Sitting and watching from my sterile space,
I'm behind privacy blinds . . .
Smoky grey illusions that seem to say "Nobody Home."
Vertical blinds jiggle with the blowing of chilled air
Sent from the hollow depths of the office world
To cool and freshen a dingy, dull day.

Hazy blue skies, polluting smoke stacks
Towering in the distance, painted angelic white
Pump out the pungent smell of sulfur,
"The Odor of Money" in a pulp town.

I strain my neck to peek out from behind
the half-wall meant to separate "US" from "THEM."
The computer hums; the photocopier moans and groans
Chugging to life, ready to spew forth evidence of thought.

Staring past logos and "For Lease" signs
Invitations to "Buy Now," "2 for 1," "Save up to 50%"
Food, shoes, and cigarettes
Everything just a few heartless steps away

Through milky smears of window-washing leftovers, I watch
Cars, people, families, babies in strollers.
Angled lines, park here, this way, give me your money.
Red crescents announce "Time Expired;"
Authoritative meter lady, poised, pulls out pad
Preparing to punish the non-payer, the violator.

People walk, people talk, people stop
To scratch, pick, pull and preen in the mirrored reflection
Of my plastic protection,
All the while, I watch, sheltered, hidden . . .
Behind my smokey grey blinds.