Counting Paperclips

Counting Paperclips
by Ben McNair
Everyday I go to Work
and I spend eight hours
with people I cross the road to avoid
at Lunchtime.
In cyber-Space, no-one can hear you scream.
Passing paper over desks,
tightening belts and braces,
signatures on paper.
Water-cooler talk of what
Ken said to Deirdre,
and what they really think
of a footballer at the centre of a scandal.
In cyber-Space, no-one can hear you scream.
More work for fewer people, and more stress.
I have not finished the presentation,
because the boss doesn’t believe in Excel,
or word, or Power-point, or Computers.
He takes the credit, but gives no apologies
for his own mistakes.
He has a Scapegoat in every department,
but we all hope some one has replaced his parachute
with an Anvil.
Sitting on the train, with strangers,
Telling me where they are.
and everyday, I die a little bit more.
Like Office Work,
95% of this poem has been a waste of our time,
because Everyday I go to Work,
and everyday, I die a little bit more.