Black shoes,
Khaki pants,
Black belt, (with stylish diagonal slits showing perpendicular streaks of blue)
Black button-up, short-sleeve shirt
Black apron,
Magnetic name tag,

Armor against thought,
Protection against economy,
Uniform against freedom,

Talk and waste time
Clock in early
Start with a bathroom break
Work slow, steady, part-time
Don’t worry about it
It’s just a job

It takes with it the sun
Wake up and set the day on my shoulders
Drag it across the sky, into a fancy faceless strip mall
Pack it into frames, pack myself into lunch
Pack the sunset, rearrange all the frames
Punch the clock, and walk into the cold

So much dragging, carrying, hunching, leaning
Exhaustion builds, multiplies
Thoughts and execution, school and work
Trampled over by them, by it all
Relationships, or attempts, and friends
Give me sleep, give me sleep

I understand The Situationists now
I understand the Spectacle
I feel it, did they plan it this way?
Now instead of outrage I only feel like sleep.


Copyright 2010 Andrew Whiting


About andrewwhiting

A sentimental and sarcastic poet, lover of language, traveling and nature (not a fan of the Oxford comma).
This entry was posted in Poem, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Working

  1. Mary says:

    Good one. Thanks

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