the office job

how limp
you were at end of the day
in your grey suit,
white shirt,
blue tie
and black shoes.
how tired
you were at doing
nothing
but moving your fingers,
your lips,
emitting sounds
that made it appear
you cared.
the hands of the clock
were lead
sticks that could hardly
move across the white
plate of hours.
your briefcase
full of air.
how easy it was for
the car
to steer itself towards
the local bar
where others
like you drank and sang,
liquefied
your growing despair.