Overtime Illuminated

Saturday workdays, the lights start cut.
I don't switch them on.
Only once, has a co-conscripted lit the office for our weekend duet.
Most times, we're isolated, half-lit by our under-shelf tubes,
the distant windows casting brightshadows of the parking lot across the ceiling.

Pick any day, and I'm drenched in fluorescence and
the voices of problem solvers trapped in cloth-covered cells,
walls on three sides; the fourth still cages.
Take a call, fix a call, close a call, take a call. Make 'em happy,
so they can buysellsteal the houses.

But this day, it's two voices like golfers,
I take a swing, he takes a swing, we take a swing.
Take a call, fix a call, close a call, take a call.
We wander the aisles quiet like vigil.
Here's a break, there's a break, queue fills up, tap it,
and it dries.

Saturday workdones, the lights stay cut.
I'm through the tinted doorway
and the sun's switched on.