White-collar workers think what else
They need, scanning the aisles and rows
Of powders, sprays and shower gels,
Still looking fresh in office clothes,
White shirts exuding cleanliness,
Sleeves neatly folded at the wrist:
Signs of a manager impress,
Along with pager and the twist
Of office keys on summer slacks,
Crease perfect, colours black or blue.
But wait… the shopping trolley lacks
A purchase? Yes, what will they do
For dinner, single, as they plough
Those aisles grimly determined? But
Once at the stack of wine, they bow
In recognition, choose, then strut
While savouring what will drink best
With take-out from the salad bar
For her, burger for him, still dressed
In pants, or her relaxed in bra,
Clothes neatly folded for the wash
Or cleaners, stiff as ornaments;
Once fed, they let all feelings quash
Like spreadsheets wiping paltry cents
Off, then check e-mails one more time,
Cut through the sordid media Tweets
And interest two per cent plus prime,
Then rest on air-conditioned sheets.
