Benjamin James Lancaster

I sit up

here, unmoving

floating, removed.

far beneath me

a colony of workers.

it is lunchtime.

 

this plastic

chair molds my back

straight.

this collar keeps

my chin up

off my chest.

it is tuesday.

 

skinny belt stiff

around my waist

I gaze

sleepily out

the large clean window

 

at the tiny men

bright, fluorescent

moving with heavy purpose

tool belts soft

and stuffed, worn

sagging with the weight of the work.

 

steel girders support

their shoulders, thick

cables wrap their arms

hard hats push down

their heads, orange cranes

massive and anchored

pivot in place, drawing

perfect slow circles

around them

giant spirographs mapping

new terrain

with their dangling cargo.

 

they coordinate in silence

their hive chaotic

dusty, skeletal

busy.

they build.

 

above, unmoving

in the hyperconscious quiet

of the staff cafeteria

I clear my throat for something

to listen to

eat my trayed lunch

with my soft hands

and check the clock.

 

they will reach me, one day

and I will not have moved

from this plastic chair.