Working From Home. A Poem by Neil Fulwood

The office as ghost town,
a scrap of paper near the shredder
standing in for a tumbleweed.

The photocopier looms silent
and implacable as a monolith.
Filing cabinets invite comparison

to old films about espionage
where files reside in dusty rooms.
The office jumbles genres

but perhaps more than anything
captures the atmosphere
of an art-house film, endless

static shots of ordinary things,
the camera holding on them
so long that they slip the holdings

of their context, become abstract.