Pages upon pages and pages and pages and pages
appear on his desk before he is done
for the night; he stays, and he works, until
the clock strikes eleven. Eyes bleary,
weary, he checks his inbox to find six
emails clogging his feed. An hour passes, spent
in misery and old caffeine. He falls
asleep, buried deep in dreams of conference calls.
Pages and pages and pages and pages and…
In the modern world, work is never done.
More piles up before it is begun.
You carry it with you, in your briefcase,
in set shoulders, in the lines on your face.
From nine to five, past five to nine a-m.