In just six short lines, this poem sets a small, fragile image against the hard machinery of finance. The rose sits "in a cell," a word that suggests both a spreadsheet box and a prison room. Whatever beauty or feeling the rose stands for is boxed in, and the poem says that this confinement is "truth to the office." In other words, the workplace treats the trapped, tidy version of life as the real one.
The second stanza makes the point colder. "Morning / is a done deal" suggests the day arrives already settled, with no room for surprise or choice. Even sunrise sounds like a transaction closed before anyone showed up.
The speaker never says "I feel," but the tone is dry and quietly critical. The mood is flat, a little claustrophobic, and sad in an understated way. The poem seems to mourn what gets lost when everything, even a rose or a morning, is turned into business.