We all live in the gaps

I start work again in 2 days,
and I’m sitting here,
in the worst bar I could find,
writing a fucking poem.

A poem,
a worthless poem,
a poem with zero return on investment,
a poem that won’t pay the bills.

A hard, heavy, rock made of inevitability
reminds me that soon I’ll have to pretend again
that workforce management platforms are of interest to me.

Brows furrow,
necks crane forward,
heads nod -
Yes, I’ll have to think about that.

*An interval as my nachos and second pint of IPA arrives*

What’s your work prison like?
Maybe you’ve been given nice amenities,
Maybe you’ve decorated your cell with photos of your loved ones,
Maybe you’re looking forward to a promotion so you too can be a prison guard,
rather than an inmate.

Or maybe you say Oh, but I like my job,
but even these people,
when asked what they are looking forward to,
will tell you about holidays,
weekends with their kids,
or a new hobby that they’re practising.

We all live in the gaps.

Poetry, strong beers, and mediocre nachos
provide a fleeting painkiller
for this recurring angst,
but as the rock grows heavier each year,
it seems an inevitability that one day,
in a morning meeting,
or an a busy train perhaps,
I’ll be overcome by the rock,
unable to carry it anymore,
and I’ll just start yelling.

At first they’ll be shocked, and maybe even amused,
but I won’t stop.
I’ll yell until I’m out of breath and then take another and keep yelling.
I’ll yell far past the point of humour and into the realms of the absurd.
I’ll yell until the noise is so uncomfortable that others drop their rocks too and join in.
I’ll yell until my vocal chords break like over-tightened piano strings.
I’ll yell until a professional yell-stopper is called in to sedate me,
or do whatever they do to people who start yelling and don’t stop.

And that would better communicate how I feel about living in the gaps
than this poem ever could.