IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE                                                                                                          

 

It’s hard to believe I’m redundant,

My productive worth measured by age.

My best before date now expired,

In reality I’m now retired.

 

I heard my name mentioned,

Then saw it on a list.

Pinned to the wall,

Next to the toilet,

At the end of my last shift.

 

I try to break it to my wife,

Who makes my lunch

Then says good bye,

Each morning as I live a lie;

Unbeknown to her and others,

In parks, where daughters, sons

And lovers,

Remind me of my younger self,

Before I wound up on the shelf.

 

The repugnant smell of indolence

Overwhelms me now.

Where once was drive

And ambition;

I face a constant war of attrition.

 

The merciless grind of

This routine

Suspends me betwixt and between

That bottomless pit of helpless rage,

Where lives of indeterminate age

Pass each other on the street.

Where do they go? Who do they meet?

 

Should I join the cafe culture,

On a cappuccino high?

Take a book, sit in the corner

And watch the world pass by?

 

Reflect on days that might have been,

When prospects all were bright.

Instead of trying to find the words

To tell my wife tonight.