Killing Yourself On Company Time

Shelby Rogers

It’s all pristine white walls,

some artwork, no personality,

just square shapes on

a red background saying nothin’,

while heels click on tiled floors,

a dull gray room lined with cubicles.

not enough light, but the windows are wide

you’re not makin’ a dime.

And here is your toxicology report:

anxiolytic filled veins and a dose

of dopamine for the brain.

Your coworkers claim you’re hard

working, but the trembling in your

hands tells a different story.

Does the cortisol not hammer the breaks,

or is it the repetitive clacking of fingertips

on keys, as file after file is reported?

Filing cabinets are left barren in the wake

of a three-week vacation,

all lined dates sit neatly in a row

but the church bells ring in tandem.

The family’s head is playing

death row. a final bout of pacer machines

in hospital suites, as that lovely tune

plays Marilyn Monroe

you don’t get paid for overtime.

It’s the same old same old

repetition

report the file report it,

clack those boney fingers

across faded keys as

the pacer gives a final tug,

oh that sweet symphony

a note denoting trumpets

but there's no dyin’ on company time.