The job I’d had in mind paid silly cash
To take extended boozy business lunches,
Let me expense a client’s birthday bash,
Rewarded risks and frequent reckless hunches.

And every day my desk would be the same.
I’d put my briefcase on the varnished oak
That bore a golden plate that bore my name
That bore significance for chartered folk.

I’d hang my bowler hat upon a stand.
My secretary would genuinely smile,
She’d wish me two good mornings, then she’d hand
To me a memorandum or a file.

But as it goes, I squeeze into the lift,
Both hot and cold at once — the sweat inside,
The rain outside my thin kagool. Adrift
To start the day, by having to decide

Which desk I should select. It’s tactical,
But arbitrary. There’s someone who annoys
With habits or with girth impractical
Wherever I end up. This place employs

These people through some charity, I’m sure.
We’re not allowed desk ornaments. Or food
Or drink too near to our computers. Nor
A decent break for lunch. My solitude

Is all the greater for the open-plan
And crowded office floor. I do apply
For roles, promotions, as and when I can.
Remuneration is in short supply.

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