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Click. Clack. Click click clack.
My retinas burn as I stare into the incandescent
Of the computer screen
Eyes closed, I listen to the staccato
Of other drones mindlessly playing the same tune
They call these cubicles the pen and for the first time
I truly understand what it means between free will-
And the illusion of it.
1:43, the same time,
Of every week
Of every month
I leave the freezing, sterilized rooms that I tolerate
For five grand a month.
The gaping maw that is the elevator doors open
And I am instantly bombarded by the pungent stench of diesel and urine.
I go to my ‘cherry red’ Prius, the paint on the left door scratched,
Revealing the cold industrial grey that plagues the south end of the city
They call it suicide slums.
Can you guess why?
I pull out of the garage, showing my badge to what looks like a new security guard
And leave- the routine embedded into my brain, my soul.
I turn towards thoughts of maybe changing what I have for lunch today,
Maybe something different this Thursday. Maybe instead of pastrami I get turkey
These thoughts distract me to the point that I don’t notice when a robot,
With burning coals for eyes rant’s about the end of organic life,
Nor do I notice when I am hurled through the air,
The two tons of the screaming, metal death trap I’m in going over the Metropolis sky line.
And of course, I don’t notice when I’m caught by a god in red and blue tights catches me and set me down on the ground.
Nope. Nothing out of the norm.
I trounce up the stairs of my apartment and unlock the door
It’s peeling paint and dent’s might suggest that someone tried to break in again.
They always try to break in.
Upon my entrance I am pounced upon
By the gray haired tabbie-
Her cool blue eyes demanding immediate worship.
I scratch her head as I loosen my tie, grabbing whatever generic brand of cola I bought this time
And turn on the news. I watch with detachment as the metal man (deemed metallo)
Hurls some shmuck through the air, only to be caught up in the sky by-
Is it a bird?
Is it a plane?
No, it’s the regular boy scout, who is always watching, always listening.
With the fur-ball on my chest, and the t.v. just a buzz
I don’t wonder why he fights for “Truth, Justice, and the American Way”
I don’t even think about the trashed car below that’s even the potential car jacker is laughing at.
I think about what it’d be like if I changed my routine.
What it’d be like, if I got a different sandwich.