Time drips slowly from the desk
onto the carpet
another day lost.
These hands, resting on a mouse,
eyes staring, at nothing.
Wasted.
These hands, that should be
creating, saving, living, freeing,
anything but idling here
at this desk,
waiting for the clock to flip
to closing time
so that these hands can then
spend their time
wrapped around a glass,
a Camel Light,
a pen,
wasted, yet again.

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