Neat Rows of Files

In a locked room, many files reside. They rest there, undisturbed. Only rarely would people step into this musty room to retrieve them.

Ink on paper, just ink on paper.

Nothing much, he yawned.

Filing day in and day out.

Filing yet again, filing once more.

To file, am filing, had been filed.

Could be filed,

should be filed

and will be filed.

With ease, he took out
one file. He yawned.

More pieces of paper to file.

His dad had died. Mum’s sick.

Three schooling sisters.

Sole breadwinner.

Hire.

Perpetual smiles. Service award.

Praise.

Slacking in a corner.
Rude. Smoke. Excuses.

Fire.

Tragedies filed.
Compliments filed.

Complaints filed.
Life is so
organized.

A poem on corporate diffidence that reduces personal experiences to lines of ink on paper to be filed away and perused at leisure.