F

Friday lunchtime.
The pub is packed.
All want their fix
of the anaesthetic.
Numbing the pain
of the early mornings,
of the grouchy bosses
and the deadlines missed.

At 5pm they're at it again.
Spending half their wages
forgetting their woes.
A week of life wasted,
confined in the office.
The weekend wasted
in hangover haze.

Monday morning.
Commuter express.
Deadly realisation
that it all starts again

with monotonous regularity.