If Bashō Were a Businessman

It’s 8:30am. Bashō has been in his WeWork cubicle since sunrise.

One foot in front of the other, on the narrow road to the kitchenette.

The journey provides — a colleague’s sandwich.

Zoom calls are silent meditation.

If an email isn’t 17 syllables, it doesn’t get sent.

KPIs change with the seasons.

Conferences are held on mountaintops.

Schedules are both past and present.

Bashō’s laptop dies.

He naps on a straw mat.

Dusk.