We are the Robots.


adult-retro-robot-costume

In unison down the city street
Pavement pounding to the beat,
March the robots, a mighty crowd
Marching steady, heads all bowed.
Marching on and off the train
Brollies handy in case it rains,
Ipods and phones at the ready
Marching forward always steady.
And I quickly take my place
Part of this robotic race,
My feet quickly find the rhythm
Marching forward almost driven.
As robots come and robots go
Pavements crack, trees grow,
Buildings crumble and then rise
Stop motion like before robot eyes.
But the marching never stops
Robots join as robots drop,
Forever marching, forever cursed
Forever back and forth to work.

Waking up on a December Morning.


Dedicated to anyone who at the moment like me, wakes up and it’s dark, goes to work and it’s dark, sees the sun briefly through their office window and then travels home in the dark.

Stumbling out of my warm bed
Trying to clear my drowsy head,
The heating struggles into life
And I try not to disturb the wife.
Memory fades of duvet’s warmth
Stifling my customary yawn,
I shiver in the colds embrace
As for my clothes I look and race.
Creep downstairs, survey the day
Drowsiness feels here to stay,
Nuke my cereal, burn the toast
Still on autopilot I coast.
Out of the door to the bus stop
Fumbling with my I-pod,
As the music hits my ears
My drowsiness starts to clear.
And despite all this, I smile
As its one less day till I retire.

Monday is an Easy Target.


 

 

Monday’s child is just pissed off.

School kids jostle by the bus stop
Pasties in greasy bags displayed.
Weekend litter clogs the gutters
There’s no doubt it’s a Monday.
Waiting impatiently for the bus
Counting those going the other way
Car drivers try to splash you
No need to check it’s a Monday.
Wet newspapers litter the bus
Smokers light cigarettes
Sticky bus seat grips you tightly
Monday has got you in its net.
I-pod’s dead as my enthusiasm
Phone has run out of charge.
Bus is stuck in traffic, no surprise
When Monday hits, it hits hard.

Monday is often targeted as the worse day of the week for obvious reasons but for years I hated Sundays more due to being dragged to church, the poor choice of what to watch on telly and the dread of returning to school the next day.

However once I started work Monday quickly grew to surpass Sunday as my least favourite day of the week ( bank holiday Mondays being the exception ) and a popular choice to write about as is shown here and here.

So no surprises that this Monday sees another Monday poem, this time a compilation of woes and bus journeys.

 

Coffee.


 

Management announces with regret,
The office’s saddest departure yet.
They’ll be no more caffeine fueled starts
As I’m talking about the coffee cart.

No more cappuccino and Mochas,
No more marvelous special offers,
No more service with good cheer,
No more cure for last night’s beer.

So when you enter floor lower ground,
And there’s no longer a coffee smell around.
Remember the faithful coffee cart,
In boosting morale it did its part.

The dread of entering my workplace used to be countered by the smell of fresh coffee from a real coffee cart that lurked in the staff entrance. Sadly the cart passed away many years ago and was replaced with a cheap self-service coffee machine. God I miss that cart , especially today when I could have done with a real coffee pick me up and not the old hot water and instant powder swill.

Anyway all this melancholy reminded me of this poem I wrote sometime ago to commiserate myself on the departure of the best office coffee I have ever tasted.

Ghost of an Office Worker.


I’m the ghost of an office worker,
Haunting my old job.
Spectral shirt and tie,
Ethereal coffee cup.

I jam the photocopier,
I hide the envelopes.
I steal your favourite pen,
I mess up all the post.

I open all the fire doors,
I make computers crash.
I set off the fire alarm,
I change the thermostat.

But why this life of malice?
Why am I such a pest?
It’s because I died in my sleep,
Unexpectedly, at my desk.