Cubby Holes

On my way home,
Waiting for the 42 bus,
Looking over across K Street,
I stared into a massive block of cubic building,
Lit from the inside,
The yellow light broken by black lines
Running up and down, back and forth
Forming squares over its face.
I was reminded of cubby holes,
Like the kind I’d leave my sneakers in,
When I went to go play in the ball pit as a child.
But before me I saw offices,
Much like the one I had just left,
And I was compelled to wonder why
I spend eight, nine, ten, twelve hours a day
Living in a cubby hole;
Wondering if there is a ball pit I could be playing in, instead.