The hum of an office refrigerator
halfheartedly wrestles against some muffled conversation
soaking through the thin wall
that might as well be constructed of butcher paper
covered in memos that have been ignored,
or better yet,
maybe they should cobbled together with
deleted emails cramped into some box
nothing more than a glowing illusion
except that its growing number is so annoying
as it sits there, staring smugly
reflecting off a pair of bifocals
there is nothing to touch
there is no sound
no cadence
no footsteps or knocks at the door.
there is only a ding
or whoosh
that fades
it is a voice in the imagination
not even a hum to be drowned out
and it seems like the only thing left to do is leave
