Once again the paper is jammed

tightly strung like my tolerance in

the lift, immersed in a duvet of strangers, a huddle

of workers, where all

we have in common is our

morning Starbucks run.

 

We don’t take the stairs, we have a reputation to

uphold for why do things ourselves when the

computer pastes it as routine?

Each day indistinguishable,

each day a ready meal, like auto-pilot,

for my mind is now drunk from black clotted coffee

my legs structured by clockwork, reliant on the subway.

 

Being praised doesn’t exist

when your competition lies on the grey of your suit

being a notable slate or distinct charcoal.

And the man on the morning commute seems vaguely familar;

maybe you saw him take beating for producing too little

maybe he’s a relative whose name you’ve mistaken

for the smile on your face is now guilt.

 

As your Christmas holiday is taken hostage

by the company of your computer screen

your gift to yourself being new glasses

for your perception has been

altered by the glare of minimum wage.