The years spring past us: futile and forgotten
to the whirring telephones and breakroom vending
machines. The pencil tapping turned drumming.
The office now a concert hall. Suits exchanged
for band tees and leather; employees scream
their heads off—chanting for raises. We mosh
to budget reports and workplace gossip. Choke
Mary, who got the highest bonus last cycle.
Us lazy-eyed, coffee-stained climbers of
the corporate ladder. (A bunch of kiss asses.)
When the show finishes at five, we flex
our battle scars: Look, look, life cut me here.
One day I woke and was two decades older.
One day I’ll wake and forget how to lie.