The Inbox

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A modern fable in verse. Wise Monkey Wrought scroll N.020, "The Inbox." The inbox reached zero at four o'clock on a Friday. It lasted the length of a coffee. On Friday, just past four, it stood: a zero, clean, a perfect nought. For one bright hour it all felt good, the desk was clear, or so he thought. The weekend passed. The tide came back, not all at once, but drop by drop, the newsletters, the launch, the track, the thread that simply would not stop. By Tuesday, forty. Thursday, more. A colleague answered "thanks!" to all. Each reply bred a reply's encore, the zero shrinking to the wall. The inbox took no note of this. It filled the way that inboxes fill. Serene, indifferent, remiss, a tide that has no meeting to bill. Inbox zero was real. It was also Friday.