I feel so cheap when I parody Walt, but the words just come so easily…
I celebrate the break room. I sing of the break room.
I loiter at its table, in a chair from the conference room.
The original chairs have collapsed under the weight of lunchtime levity.
I lean and loaf at my ease observing the box of Munchkins left over from the
morning’s Executive Committee meeting.
Only the plain cake ones remain, unadorned,
fit only for consumption when desperation beckons.
I have seen this postcard tacked to the bulletin board.
I have taken in its representation of warmth, frivolity, intoxication.
I have studied it and presumed much.
Gentle breezes redolent of pineapple, perhaps Coppertone.
Turndown service. It evokes the luxury that one has paid to enjoy.
No cheese Danish in a bag hung on the door handle, this.
Its reverse side bears happy tidings, promises of swift return.
The person who sent it two years ago no longer works here.
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