I get food, if
I make myself big enough
otherwise I only figure
in the statistics of the problem

There's a light on in the office
that is never open
It echoes behind the door
which does not give way under my fists

This can't be an office
Too hollow for compassion
a dead body
with a bulging eye

and I am the nobody
who cannot escape
A journalist runs by
doesn't ask for the plan

What is, what can be
what must be behind it?
Nobody picks it up
with a Big Grasper

Is that me?