A sense of dread that eases by 11am,
And by 1pm I’m like an engine; raring to go.
Caught in glass gears that generate glum hell,
but with no cogs or cubicles
At 7am on a Saturday it’s hard to get out of bed
When all my friends are sleeping off the night before.
I make my way robotically down straight grey roads
to a contraption where the assessors slave away
The roles we assume in here are puppetry, not individual
– a reflection on life.
(Which is ironic given the tinted and
mirrored windows reflect the world back on itself
and keep prying eyes out of uncouth financial business)
The machinations behind these walls
are ripe for parody, as employees, try as they may
to find an objective way
of describing its inner workings,
fully aware that it’s inane.
The absurdity never goes away,
it marches on mechanically.
The windows blot out the brightest days,
and the spirits of everyone stutter
in the dullest of ways.