He fashioned a fan
Out of the weekly reports
Unbuttoned his sweat stained shirt
And muttered curses under his breath
Yet another power outage
On a summer afternoon
He would rage if he could
Call the men behind the bills
Write strongly worded letters
Complain to the nearest willing ear
In his bloody red fantasies
He would organize a mob
Arm them with pitchforks and torches
Storm the tower were they hoard energy
But the heat was unbearable
His tongue was parched
His skin wet with sweat
His mind all but fried
He would go to the beach
If he could
Consume one of those snow cones
If he could
Drink cold drinks with tiny umbrellas
If he could
But he can’t
He was stuck behind a desk
Inside a furnace furnished
Like an office

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