Rectangles

I don’t care about the names laid out
in paper on the office floor
where I am just in search of any door
to get away from there.
People look up at us from the street
sometimes desperately after
stumbling out of any other
transparent rectangle on this block
after hearing some bad news.
Blue salt melts the ice holding on
to every sidewalk between where
the building spits me out,
and the parking lot
where I will put my headphones
in and drive.
It’s only five but I can feel myself
begin to fall asleep and I am doubting
all the instincts sparking red
to just remind me where I am.
The radio is nothing but emergency tests,
commercials, and some songs
that don’t match up with what’s
around me.