Spindle-fingers

In which we visit the office

The spirit lives in the confidential waste bin.

Huddled in paper blankets of names and addresses, he

Unabashedly trills as he dances over keyboards and

Runs spindle-fingers over files.

“Save your work!” comes the cry, a

Desperate click comes

A second too late.

You watch his backside drift away, snigg-wiggling.

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