(Thank you Wystan Hugh Auden. Why did you abandon Freud and Marx for Christ?)
Temporary Work Song
Vaguely fishing for hope or certainty, careless of success through the cavernous cube-shaped atmosphere, each exhausted sigh, all day long at work, sends a stray remark.
Even-handedly paying at each chair diligence its due, we dream how they know peace through raving day, wishing you were here, guessing more or less you were worth the loss.
Hourly, counting down the long time it takes rain to wash dead skin off the glass, the sun promises to atone, refresh our good looks, grant us love and fun, leave us left alone.
. . .
Temps unite!
-Alec
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