I miss the comfort of the office desk
and the nine to five
routine.
A conversation
by the photocopier of
“Who won the match last night”?
I even miss the heated arguments.
The pretend bitching sessions
right next to the fridge.
Coffee shops on Parnell Street, hipster to Asian
All the world walking past
Tourists with their maps.
Last out in the evening, turning out the lights
the cleaner chirps
“Don’t forget the lotto, its fifty million tonight”.
Enjoyed this poem . The steady rhythm (iambic pentameter) replicates the monotonous routine of office life. Yet despite its pedantic nature, there is a sense of loss of the known, the day at the office. Last two lines are my favourite, the words of the cleaner as the clerk is leaving .