Predicament

His cells fly
Three thousand miles
In six hours
While he sits
And wonders why
He feels worn out, a rag,
Twisted
And wrung out to dry.

All the papers
That passed through his fingers
And are read
By eyes before and after
And before and after his,
Read themselves to him
In his sleep-working.

There is safety in the numbers
That collate around him
In the white silence.

While smothered in particulars,
He struggles to remember
The next task to perform in the series of tasks
That end in a not too distant pointless
Convergence on his horizon.

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