Propinquity, Too

Once upon a time, there was

An office, and within it

There were two more offices,

Neither one with a window.

One person worked in each one,

Each at one large, wooden desk,

And each left the door open

So they could call back and forth

To each other, about work,

News, online jokes, whatever.

Once a day, a coworker

Fixated on catchphrases

From a handful of movies,

Mostly decades old, would stand

In the main office, facing

The two, side-by-side, open

Doors, so he could look at both

Of his colleagues at their desks

At once, and when they looked up,

He could point six-gun fingers

And repeat Val Kilmer’s line

From Tombstone, I got two guns,

One for each a’yas. He’d laugh

At his own wit, every time,

And the windowless workers

Would indulge him with a grin

Or a greeting of their own.

This went on for years, until

One of them had to retire

Due to a heart condition,

And the other one landed

A higher-ranked position,

And then the whole office suite

Was relocated elsewhere,

And, if you visit elsewhere,

You may find the dark office

Where the coworker so fond

Of pretend six-guns still works

And complains to anyone

Willing to listen how great

The old office was, and how

Those were the days of friendship.