Are they waiting for the end?

How can people sit here
twiddling their thumbs
twiddling their life away
waiting for the next coffee break, the next lunch, the next weekend
are they being held here by the want of stability, money, fame, power?

(Maybe not fame and power,
working at a company selling nuts and bolts)

Maybe it’s a vision of themselves, a vision of comfort,
of seeming liberty—but a reality of thinly-veiled dependence
on package holidays and shiny new bells and whistles
waiting for life’s clock to tick silently by?