My complaints are the same;
their recourse, the same.
Hours too long, life too short.
Work too hard, learn too little.
It’s tiresome, really tiresome,
even describing the time wasted.
A job is just a job, until it’s a career…
a way of life, a wife, family.
Sunset becomes a firestorm,
reddens the evening of my ruin.
Time was the superintendent would call you down,
give you a little talk, send you on your way.
Now, it’s a letter postmarked two days earlier −
an ambush, you never see the assassins:
he’s hiding behind a rock; she’s re-loading guns.
Someone higher up and far away
is calculating numbers,
counting kills, calling in the artillery.
We’ve all lost something,
a wallet, keys, a favorite pen.
But losing something’s not the same
as having it taken away.
I imagine I’m a hit man
taking the elevator to your office.
The door opens and in you walk.
I have you by the throat
asking why you fired me.
___'Because you’re an incompetent:
___put your thumbs on my windpipe'.