Finally, as promised, my entry for the Buxton Poetry Competition:
Another Working Day
I wish they would fire me…
It’s 7.15am on the A323.
The road is already clogged, and my mind has been fogged ever since
I started finishing each day late – how many months ago? Maybe eight.
The DJ on the radio breakfast show says things I don’t hear,
to a bellow of laughter that drowns out all thought.
Sometimes I wish to murder such cheery folk, but I’d only get caught.
Ha! They’d fire me then!
Except I’d be in prison, of course,
when I should be in bed cuddling my wife,
and reading in the papers about the strife with which everyone else is dealing.
Deep inside me is a feeling – serious crime probably isn’t the way to go.
Or maybe it’s indigestion from low-caffeine tea and high fibre cereal,
while I stare at all the cars and long for something more ethereal.
I WANT THEM TO FIRE ME!
I want them to set me free.
I want them to show me the door and say, “Don’t come back anymore.”
I need to lose the feeling of restraint – get the wind in my hair,
free from the taint of cheap coffee and even cheaper meal-deal lunch
(the checkout girls in Boots don’t even smile – thanks a bunch!)
that combats this bulge in my suit, with a ‘healthy’ sandwich and tasteless piece of fruit.
How can I get myself fired? Go to work one day high, or wired?
Daub graffiti on my boss Peter’s car? No no.
They’d say I hadn’t gone too far, only that I was tired and stressed:
“Go home and recuperate ‘til you’re back to your best.”
“I don’t want to come back!” would be my reply
(if I didn’t lack the balls to make the changes I’d like).
For good measure: “You can stick the job and go take a hike.”
Oh but I can dream, about leaving behind this team
of incompetent fools and the ignorant clients they make feel important.
Each and every day motivation and esteem plunge into the abyss.
I want no further part of this;
I am tired, depressed and bored, but cannot leave of my own accord.
Somebody – anybody – PLEASE set me free.
Why won’t they just fucking fire me?
It’s 7.15am on the A323.
The road is already clogged, and my mind has been fogged ever since
I started finishing each day late – how many months ago? Maybe eight.
The DJ on the radio breakfast show says things I don’t hear,
to a bellow of laughter that drowns out all thought.
Sometimes I wish to murder such cheery folk, but I’d only get caught.
Ha! They’d fire me then!
Except I’d be in prison, of course,
when I should be in bed cuddling my wife,
and reading in the papers about the strife with which everyone else is dealing.
Deep inside me is a feeling – serious crime probably isn’t the way to go.
Or maybe it’s indigestion from low-caffeine tea and high fibre cereal,
while I stare at all the cars and long for something more ethereal.
I WANT THEM TO FIRE ME!
I want them to set me free.
I want them to show me the door and say, “Don’t come back anymore.”
I need to lose the feeling of restraint – get the wind in my hair,
free from the taint of cheap coffee and even cheaper meal-deal lunch
(the checkout girls in Boots don’t even smile – thanks a bunch!)
that combats this bulge in my suit, with a ‘healthy’ sandwich and tasteless piece of fruit.
How can I get myself fired? Go to work one day high, or wired?
Daub graffiti on my boss Peter’s car? No no.
They’d say I hadn’t gone too far, only that I was tired and stressed:
“Go home and recuperate ‘til you’re back to your best.”
“I don’t want to come back!” would be my reply
(if I didn’t lack the balls to make the changes I’d like).
For good measure: “You can stick the job and go take a hike.”
Oh but I can dream, about leaving behind this team
of incompetent fools and the ignorant clients they make feel important.
Each and every day motivation and esteem plunge into the abyss.
I want no further part of this;
I am tired, depressed and bored, but cannot leave of my own accord.
Somebody – anybody – PLEASE set me free.
Why won’t they just fucking fire me?
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