So it’s morning start time at the office. <br />Or should be. <br />Red-eyed, those tell-tale diagonal ridges <br />from eyes across the cheeks.. <br />we roll in late, proud, but exhausted.. <br />our wrists flashing with <br />bling allied to timekeeping… <br />but even we ourselves don’t care; <br />and sore did you say sore… <br /> <br />By now, judging from my emails, <br />just about every wage-earner in the East and West <br />sports a fake Bulgari, Patek Philippe, Gucci, <br />weighing down their wrist; and <br />who believes or cares when we say, we keep <br />the real one at home? <br /> <br />Ah yes, at home - <br />where our nights are longer <br />and more extended and <br />you know just what I mean.. <br /> <br />and we’d love to go freelance but <br />where but the office <br />could we discreetly boast, show off <br />our new swinging thingies, <br />or our pert bouncers, or simply flash our wrist, <br />to all those who are now equipped with just the same <br />by consumerism’s joyless games <br />and internet’s gross joyless claims, <br />and money now, only confers <br />the same as his; the same as hers.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/those-twenty-first-century-bluues/
