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