A fifty hour week,
sat behind my computer screen
I earn my keep.

Ensuring a single bed and four solid walls.
Ensuring five hours of sleep,
three ready-meals and a shower.

This office full of clones
justifying identical existences.
Fifty hours surrounded by reflections
and copies of those who only imitate the successful.

Isolated from their lives
as they are from mine,
in sorry grey cubicles like cheap tombs
decorated in this months spreadsheet wallpaper.

An ant farm on the eighteenth floor,
corporate and corrosive
a logo for a Queen.

I can work this Saturday, no problem.
I cancel plans.

A 60 hour week.
Above all else
life should be enjoyed.