Harold and the Purple Crayon

I look around my cubicle,
gray ceiling and manila phone.
I curse the white sterile walls.
Why can’t I draw on them
a purple door that I remember so vividly?
Or fill the electrical socket with green Play-Doh—
the patchwork of a child, high in sodium, yum.
To use snots as weapons:
some, when rolled in a ball,
release from your finger while others remain stuck.
Likewise dead-or-live bugs in the kitchen
or the mysterious scraps of toilet paper
you find in the men’s room
serve as ammo to throw
at the new girl in accounting.
To make music with your armpits,
mimicking farts
with lips to closed hands.