On Work

I work too much, I think. My nine-to-five
Seems sometimes like nine-to-infinity,
And time off-clock is eat-some-sleep-some-drive,
Then walk-in, clock-in, productivity.

I even dream of being on the job:
An endless stream of “hey do that, do this,”
Subconscious tasks impossible to solve,
Self-employment impossible to quit.

But sometimes friends invite me Friday nights
To live a bit, sit barstool for a few,
And I just might, though always to my right
I hear “what’s up”–“not much”–repeat ’til two.

Dull? Sure, but I’ve had dreams of work before
While unemployed, and woke to wish for more.

~Michael Danger Caskey

£3.50 More

I overheard them talking at the pub:
Two working men who sat down at the bar,
Pulled out their pocket-change and ticket-stubs,
And ordered for a pint of something hard.

“I read they’re taking out our pensions now,”
The first one told the second with a sip,
“They’d take the very air if they knew how,”
The second person answered with a quip,

“It really costs too much to live these days,
Without more taxes for the government:
They’re raising eight pounds more per year, they say.”
“The nerve!” said one, who saw his pint was spent;

He found his wallet, paid £3.50 more,
And asked the barback for another pour.

~Michael Danger Caskey

Published in: on April 16, 2012 at 9:00 am  Leave a Comment  
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