The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Jane Blanchard
Ratchet
The sun shines on the dawning day; You hope to make your share of hay. The coffee sits within the pot; The burner off, the swill not hot. You use a brand-new razor blade; You next apply a small BAND-AID. You try to eat some cereal; The week-old milk smells terrible. You brush your teeth and rinse with Scope; The shower has shampoo, no soap. You choose cuffed pants, your legs insert; You don your cleanest dirty shirt. You grab your briefcase, phone, and keys; You slide into your car with ease. The dashboard says to fill the tank; The billfold says to hit the bank. The errands run, you rush to work; You soon get stuck behind some jerk. You find your parking spot is taken; You think martini, stirred, not shaken. You spend four hours at your desk; The site is less than picturesque. You focus on a few accounts; You make some trades, no great amounts. You order lunch—the usual; You eat within your cubicle. You find the beef is corned, not roasted; The bread is soft—it should be toasted. You make some calls, then sort some mail; The spam, the junk, they never fail. A co-worker sticks up his head; You wish he kept it down instead. Another struts her sexy stuff; You have seen more than is enough. Your boss drops by just to complain; It seems the rain still falls in Spain. You leave the office right at five; Ten miles is but an hour’s drive. Another jerk soon cuts you off; You think of quitting work for golf. At six you reach your own abode; You enter with the standard code. You pour a glass of Pinot Noir; It tasted better yester soir. You bake a pizza—pepperoni; The claim, real cheese, must be baloney. From eight till ten you watch t.v.; No channel surfed deserves h.d. You go to bed to saw one log; Your mind grinds on from cog to cog. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |