in-service

you're sitting

in a meeting

something's wrong.

what?

walls.

all around.

this is no room,

it seems you've stumbled

upon a dungeon

a perfection of isolation

how so? are there not people around?

are they not sitting around?

indeed they are.

but it seems they've forgotten

how extraordinary they really are

for they cannot look you

in the eye

an iv drop within my bag

it's rectangular and in my hand

this is Room, a random variable

on a Friday morning meeting

perfectly isolated and sedated

not a drop of sunlight within

the chair you picked

it's uncomfortable

but they're all the same

so it's not on you,

this discomfort

i can see you screech it, creak it

but you don't want to look weird

for everyone is quite

civil

afraid of saying the wrong thing

afraid of doing the wrong thing

or maybe you're not,

maybe you're quite comfortable

but, my friend,

you smell like shampoo, chlorine, sulfate, triclosan i want to

choke

i cannot breathe

i need the wind offered in motion i feel my legs wilting as they remain an accessory for the chair

unused, perfectly stale

and your voice,

it's sorta shaking

nobody else can tell

but i notice, the broken valves

above my head, their thickening pipes

threatening suffocation

all around you fidgeting fingers tapping legs tapping legs tapping legs you want to scream you can't stand it

you want to leave

tick, tick

you begin laughing you're about to lose it

𝘪𝘵'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘦

alas, the clock strikes forty!

out your seat,

there's sunlight behind the field