Working Week

A shrieking blue sky roars me awake
Open, up, off the night I must shake
Shuffling, grumbling down shadowy stairs
Iron shirt, take jacket off the back of the chair
Another week begins

Workday heels clatter down the street
Through rain and ice, cold and heat
A smell of sweat, a muffle of song
Packed once again amidst the silent throng
Another Monday morning

Sunshine seen from a train, van, factory, cell
Underground, meetings, sandwiches, office hell
Tattered ties, plastic cups, time passed in corridors
Forced small talk and holiday snaps, red tape and bores
This is how we work

Rooms bleached of colour and soul, concrete eyes
Plastic nature, hidden meanings, contracted lies
Odourless air, flavourless tea, fluorescent sun
Grime marks, tension, waste, what have I done?
Fallen into the trap

No more man than mouse, no trousers in my house
Lunch is a scramble through human lice
Plastic food in paper bags
Endure, endure as time and skin sags
Losing sight of the light

The afternoon crawls like a slug with a limp
Routine is the king, there is no need to think
Tempted to stop swimming and gradually sink
Passing time with a quip, a tea, a saucy wink
Having less and less room to thrive

The working day ends and we rush onto the street
There are beers to be drunk and friends we should meet
Suddenly there is music, air, love and laughter
Home for dinner, warmth, sex, cuddles after
Then sleep, its grand to be alive