In the cubicles,
the prayers begin at six o’clock
when most of the figures left behind
wipe away their rubber marks
to leave for the pests
and the processions.
In the headquarters,
flying saucers drip
from ceilings
like photonic polar bears,
picking their liquid nitrogen paws.
Fixed above human heads,
they taste of migraine.
By the window,
chafing on woodchip wallpaper,
the year, and dates.
Apart from the briefcase buzz
and plate-shaped sweat,
alien accounts
and plastic carnations:
Striped foreheads
and spectacle-shaped nose tattoos.
Through the turnstiles,
faded espresso in a dress.
The clouds have broken.