Cubicles

I can see into those low walls
From across the breezeway
The fences that could not be climbed
But inside of whom everyone is watched
Screens glare into the eyes of the diligent
While the Bartleby's while away
I scriven only to suit myself
In whatever I happen to be wearing
But I do pine for commiseration
The electric sense of imminent escape
A feeling of running away follows even a walk down the hall
And if we get out together
Our conspiracy gets carried along