lift the lid and look inside
cubicles tightly packed
filled with us, the happy worker bees
gathering and making honey for giants to harvest
held fast in our chairs by the promise
that we may someday have hives of our own
or fear that if we did not live to please the giants
we would have no reason to live.
and at 5 o'clock on fridays
we are so out of there
we climb rocks
dance and drink
run marathons
and ride very very fast motorcycles
all weekend long
so we don't have to think about being content little worker bees
we live wild and dangerous and free
as long as we are back at the hive
in time for the team meeting on monday
where we try not to die of suffocation by process and percentage.
staring at a graph of the number of productivity events
that have happened since last monday
and the slope of the trend line since the beginning of the quarter
pretending that the magnitude of that number
and the angle of that line
represented something worth the time,
the effort,
the attention,
and the passion
of the walking and talking miracles that we are