Birdsong, Sunlight, and Breezes

Address your complaints
To the non-office.
Nothing human here
To object to this.

You were graced two hours
With the doors open,
The breezes blowing
To talk to no one.

You dozed in the frame
Of the body frail
By any standard.
Inhaled and exhaled.

You own none of this,
Closer to random
Now than privilege,
Sunlit abandon.