NaPoWriMo, Day Seven, Poem Seven

Last Leg

 

Job well done

saves none.

Air moved 

room to room,

imaginary 

sums tallied,

invisible quota

agreed on.

Always a 

good day

when no one 

dies close by.

Lights off, mourn

last lost minutes

unsupervised,

left to rot,

office fridge's

abandoned fruit.