stillfugue

The phone at my desk at work
has digital stuff.
It helps and abuses in a dark, pea green.
It advises me of where I work.
It advises me of my name,
but my name is too long
so I only get the first initial of first name.

It advises me of my extension
(I do often forget!)
(I avoid speaking the extension
I had for 17 years
at my old job
by staring at the display on my phone.)

It enumerates my entire phone number,
an important feature for numbskulls.
It advises me if I’ve left my phone
in the Do Not Fuck With mode.
It always rings while I’m enjoying quiet.

And then we get to the digital bomb:
It advises me of the time,
advises me of the day in three letters
and advises of the month and day.
I’m forced to remember the year
on my own.

The time measurement of my phone
is very slow,
but I verify with watch and computer.
It’s accurate and horribly slow.
It always advises me that I’m tardy
and my boss hates that, the tardy part.

I part waters with my computer
but that has no bearing on wages.
My boss and my phone
always judge me tardy,
so I make pennies per hour.

Sometimes, when the day says, “Tue,”
my depression comes out strong
and claws my eyes out of my head
because even though Monday is gone,
there is not much hope for an end to the week.

Today, I was doing a terribly tedious task
with thousands of rows of data.
When I started,
the phone said,
“2:42pm.”
After a great number of manipulations,
with a feeling of bursting
accomplishment,
I looked and the clock was
hanging on “2:42,”
and this is how
I know
that I had died
already in
Hell.