Poetry

Summer Bummer, 12 (164.)

4 o’clock on a Friday email,
please forget about the start of the weekend – we’ve failed.
More like, there’s work to be done.
Most like, the sooner the better.
Understandable.
Money flows into and out of all kinds of pockets,
and pours into and out of all kinds of accounts;
some of them are payable, others are debatable,
you’d better hope that yours is not forgettable.
Regrettable, the things we do for cash.
You want those donuts? Better make ’em last.
There’s no telling when another treat will come your way.
Remote work freed us, then it decreed us
“Open to work.”
You’re sitting at home all the time?
Perfect, here’s another project.
It’s not terrible – capitalism demands
a semi-full wallet –
but free time has become something of an enigma, now.
Chin up, steady on, stay the course and all that;
in a decade or so, this time will make us wistful.

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