Gonna March
Through whining dry coal doors
Demanding it
long hours cursing that coughing gray copier
broken junk
times that only seizing lights painted rooms
empty cubicles
no more yes, right away or how many projects
don’t wear chains
rain, sleet, snow haven’t killed my faded boots
in before seven
bronze revolving doors dragged along a spotted tile floor
shoving them hard
swiftly soaring by Tom the doorman and his crooked collar
pressing three
galloping down a wrinkled Deco rug soaked in morning coffee
barely scraping feet
Gonna March
Through whining dry coal doors
Demanding it
AG
The Eclogues 