7 January 2013
Inside the offices, the dim and yellow strip lighting Gives hollow light, reluctantly, to those who sit below In rows, at desks with rings of coffee staining deep into them Like faint reminders of how many times a cup has sat To cool, before a lipsticked mouth has sipped upon the brim, And then they sigh aloud with breath that smells of cigarettes And cheap cologne that clings to skin, a hazy, heady musk. To be nameless for so long can cause a person to become A grey, and lonesome ghost who walks these grey and lonesome halls
So, pushing hard against the weight of city living, slowly They scrape away at debts and bills with desperate fingers, clawing On to happy hopes (although there's not much chance of winning) And climb the crumbling mountain with a weight upon their backs, Watching steady streams of co-workers give up on all That they have worked for. Marriages that melt away from all The late nights, staying at the office in the dim light Of a fax machine, that blinks with disbelief, as dawn Draws near, and still, they're here! Through blood shot eyes they rest their heads In aching hands, just breathing in, just coping with it all
Perhaps it's not the greyness of it all, perhaps it is The repetition, and the uniformity: how life Becomes impersonal and names no longer stick. The office workers slowly march in straight, long lines towards Impending doom, who, lulled to insignificance by slow, And jolting rhythm of a room of typewriters that 'Ping!' They do not notice how they have grown old, sat here, alone, And how their hair has slowly greyed, and how their nails have grown, And how they have not done the things they wished that they had done. So here, they sit, at desk and chair, and slowly fade away
And from behind the horizontal bars of broken blinds Which slice the sunlight: dim the room to stop them dreaming, They work away at codes and numbers, endless strings of language They don't even understand, but still they work away And earn the money that they need to grow old, and then leave This horrid walls... But no, it never happens: never Will they visit France, or buy a car, or paint the lounge. So they will sip their coffee, silently, in patient wait, Counting down the hours until the clock chimes six And they may leave, until tomorrow morning comes, but then They must come back, again.
THE OFFICE WORKERS • Opuss № I