9 to 5

There's this random office building across the Cinemark downtown.
Sometimes, when I go there,
I'll watch a dumb movie at the theater,
Then tiptoe past glass windows of desk workers.
And if I'm with my friends, I might laugh at them,
Whiling away behind a screen
While we're over here, doing whatever the hell we want.
When I'm alone, though, I might sympathize with them---
I feel tired just looking at their rat-raced faces.

After we sneak past the office, we might go to the parking garage behind that.
Or I might, depending on the day.
Then, I climb up the creepy, cobweb-filled stairwell
Illuminated by the occasional yellowing lightbulb.
After sprinting up the stairs, our quads burning, panting,
We make it to the roof.

There's a random tennis court in the corner, but it's locked.
If I'm with my friends, we climb on top of the generator and hop the fence of the court,
Just for the thrill of it,
Even though none of us have tennis rackets,
Or have even played tennis before.

If I'm alone, I just hang my legs off the edge of the building,
Facing the highway and the office in front of it
Watching the hurried taillights of Hondas and Acuras on the I-10
Go somewhere no one will ever care about.

I'll probably breathe in the air, which is crisp when you're so high up.
Then, I'll look again at the office workers.
Back curled, staring soullessly into their computers,
Calculating stock or whatever it is adults do there.

My heart sort of twinges, then.
They've worked their whole lives to get to this point
Of mind-numbing slavery.

And I look at the Houston skyline
And foolishly, youthfully,
Am glad as hell that I'm not them.