A Poem about Working

I wrote this poem two summers ago about my horrible corporate job as an event planner for a financial company.


Sometimes, I wake from sleep at 2:00
with this heart of mine so heavy and blue.
I stand up straight and feel the floor
It's cold and hard like my dull roar.
I stare and dream until the hour
when it's time for me to take a shower.
Today, again, I crossed the line
to my crappy job that I say is fine.
My boss, she's strange, an empty shell
of the woman she was before this hell
An opera gal of twenty years
with a voice that brought grown men to tears
The other folks are not complex
they know three nouns, a verb, and one dark hex
And in my cubicle I sit
between the bots who shit on wit
They glare and stare wearing a snear
It's me the loud and brave they fear.
That's when I remember a simple tale
A dream I had of a tall, gay male
Who left that job when the time was right
and forever more slept through the night.