Between the cubicals at night
and prowl the vacant aisels, tear and fight
for scraps from meetings heled past six.
They growl and quibble, nibbling dainties
From wastebins, desks and stashes,
hidden chocolates, sequestored chips.
Cost-analysts but rarely crawl
over their carpeted cubical wall
to drink their fill from communal pots,
or catlike-doglike-wolflike call
across the night-calm, empty hall
rutting, scratching, snuffling,
lost in their woodsy thoughts
Fine young accountants at their columns,
Puffed executives, how they strut--
keep their civil day, their civil way,
Rarely from civilization stray
and live their in-boxed lives
with only careful glances, gopher-quick,
at the forest beyond their files.