Eight o 'clock a.m.. , I sit
And stare from the ads
To the world outside the green
Curtained windows.
All at once the empty thoughts
Drag in again my mind in tatters;
Telling of hours before
Inquiring forms and curious
Side-stares, embarrassing disclosures
And behaviour divulges,
Wisdom gauges and conduct forecasters,
Sapped by endless needling questions
Rattled by the time's-up
Ring of clocks, I blunder;
Dazed, I stray from pawn to bores
From rook to bishop to queen.
The king, (or should I say pretender
to the throne)
Seems preoccupied when I seek
His attention for my forms
On his table
When he has time to scan the papers
Of this distraught outside
He is quick to focus
On the blank for desired recompense
And find trace of unnatural tendencies
Mingling with antagonizing dispositions
Of my withered system.
After some unguided tours
And several sightseeing journeys
To the source of light, stability,
And bread I await the verdict
Spruced to the last faint smell of
Arresting agents for underarm assailants,
Pitifully-scuffed personality elevators,
And double knits with a few
Isolated running threads.
I graciously squirm
From the conditioned breeze
That bites my tropic skin
As I strain for the final words
Of wisdom and compassion
Seeking to blot out the weeks of anxiety,
The dead heat passion for the joys of follow-up
Ending with an emasculated try at encouragement
From this divine allocator of grace;
O, worthy and ever-able servant
Of thy chosen trade, holder of the most
Enviable capabilities and achiever of
Past glory called experience,
Be it known to you that
From this day forward, we will,
With the blare of trumpets and
The syncopated beat of drums,
(collate our impressions, analyse our
findings, and turn you inside out),
Announce our decision
But in the meanwhile
Just do not call us,
We will call you.
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