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Cube Farm

Awash in cold, white fluorescence,
The Cube Farm  hums busily
About its collective banality.
The nucleus of his cell,
A worker dares, in the interstices
Between faxes and coffee breaks,
To marvel at the spectre of his eventual glory:
A manfiestation plucked by the hand of chance
From the guf of possibilities. 

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Beige and Brown Wood-Paneled Station Wagon