The Shut-in on the 55th Floor © 2026 by Romie Stott

From my office window, with my OptiSpan lenses on, I watch
him: beer-stained tee two days straight
in his floor-to-ceiling box of light.
Fancies himself an “artist,” but lives off Daddy’s money.
He’s famous, my coworker says,
For taking selfies?
But not rich enough for blackout curtains?
My coworker explains influencer like an exotic religion,
his grungy skin nonetheless sequined
with embedded nanocircuit sensors, detecting my invasion,
pinging a data-rights blockchain somewhere
– a creed of endless exposure –
painting by the window, sun bouncing off his shoulders,
while I grind under a bitch of a boss.
He’s got no deadlines, only voyeuristic followers & clicks.
Maybe that’s “work” now—to be seen
until you disappear.
Twenty years in, I can’t tell
if he’s idle, or if I’ve been standing still too long,
my throat constricts.
Maybe he’s not wasting time at all,
not in this compact corner of the Anthropocene,
just closing deals
in a world that pays in light.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from Angela Liu during our annual Kickstarter.]