USA

leahyshaw@worldnet.att.net 

Canticle from a Cublicle

God, how stupidly I spend my time
on work I don’t like
with people who see me as cold-blooded and gruff.
If it were money I was spending
I’d own tchotchkes, trinkets, useless stuff.

At my post at work, I’ve set down amulets—
a statue of triumphant Nike,
a print of the Bayeux tapestry.
But Victory is small in this outfit
and the Norman Conquest doesn’t fit my cubicle.
I’ve lopped off half the chronicle.

My computer speaks; I’ve programmed it thus:
In the A.M. it says: Hello, gorgeous. 
In the P.M.: You’ll be back.
Next A.M. I am. I’m no slack.
I can be counted on, I am reliable,
I’m what they want here, “proactive” yet pliable.

God, how did it come to this at all?
You and I both understand this is not my call.
Am I like a druggie, perhaps, hooked on the rut,
beholden to the machinery, hot for the money?
Or a clown, a lady Pagliacci, butt
of all jokes, pretending this tragedy is funny?

I don’t know. I know not one sure thing.
My hope is on hold, and yet I hope to hope.
I am better off here for a while. Nope,
I am better off out. Nike, lend me a wing,
lead me away, let me rise up and quit!
Deliver me now from the keyboard and desk where I sit.

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