Nothing, Really

I think
I need some workahol.

Lick the salt; dress the wounded keys
And note the memo.
Random thoughts and dreamy stares
Float in clouds of minutes taken and not
Returned, as meetings ebb and quotas flow.
Arrows fire in secret,
Airy paths of insubordination. Hostage
To a frozen face unbending, half-past nowhere.
Never-ending. Mind

Lending me your stapler?