The air hangs heavy as a Suffolk sow,

they’re Monday morning miserable

those office workers, tripped on time,

drag leaden feet through treacle steps

to tortoise to another desk,

peer over rims at tomb-toothed grins

to listen to the weekend’s sins

that hold no truth or interest.

 

Grey faces merge with grey on grey,

perspiration circles swirl on poorly tended armpits,

de-odourised for no-one;

the feeders break the biscuits out,

take refusal as a mortal sin,

bitterness out,

calories in,

their kids have all left home now.

 

The Daily Mail’s our Bible freaks

pontificate religiously

through fascist eyes and ruddy cheeks

on the Gypsies, gays and Polish.

 

We have pockets deep enough for dreams

but not enough cash.

Memories of being lean

but too much time.

 

The clock suspended in formaldehyde

preserves in aspic working lives

the Monday, Friday, nine to five

from twenty-one to sixty.

 

We have gall to think our workmates find us handsome,

cheek to stare at other people’s wives,

dream colours not within the office palette,

cerise on pink

aquamarine

fuchsia

turquoise

racing green,

remind us we’re forever grey,

we are all office monkeys.