Worked on this poem for a while but lost the feeling for it...until I stayed late this past Tuesday, then it started making sense again. Now I think I've lost it again. Oh, well.
Working Late
My new duties include
guarding empty hamster cages
set up on the desks,
making sure they aren't invaded
by the mice with tenements
in the building's heating system
who know the cleaning crews
won't enter this wing after 3:00 PM.
I don't mind being here after
the non-exile's quitting time,
basking in the warm rooms,
the fast internet--sanctuary
while frostbitten furniture
organize my stacks of books into letters
that spell out my failure.
Everyone is already too busy,
and the empty cages always need
to be cleaned: water freshened
and new shavings every week,
more frequently if we have a visit
from the department head.
Sometimes I'll mess things up and leave
a cage door open, watch the eyes
of a spelunking mouse braving
the climb to the desktop,
rushing in and out of tunnel and wheel,
pupils growing large as they look at me to cope
with the thrill of captivity,
recognizing my similar stare
before scurrying to escape.
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