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.
