haikubicle
A tiny poem that only an office worker would write. It’s about the smell of old coffee, the glare of the fluorescent lights, and the guy who talks to his plants.
The coffee is old. The lights are bright. The plant man talks too much.
My chair is uncomfortable. My boss is annoying. My life is a haikubicle.
I breathe in coffee. I stare at walls. I’m doomed.