“Mr. Edwards please make your way to the managers office,”
James could picture her pimply face as she expressed each syllable from her orifice.
The twenty that walked down the isle to his office were laid off,
A young blooded manager was reducing the work force, his name, “Mr Scoff.”
Sitting in his flashy office drinking Gin and Tonic.
James walked the death row isle,
His colleagues faces staring helplessly, none with a smile.
Architecture was his life and this was the end it seemed,
His pencil would not draw another success for Designer Beam.
The old carpet’s familiar crunchy sound,
Under his shoes many happy memories of the now ghosts that paced up and down.
The walk seemed longer this time, then he paused at the door for a while,
He briefly turned to see the head peaking over the partitions, none offering an
James faced the door, cleared his throat before knocking and with a bowed head he
Faint murmurs were heard outside as if debating a his fate for a cardinal sin.
Mr. Scoff’s scornful laugh was heard through the door,
Then absolute quietness, nothing was heard any more.
An hour later Scoff walked down the isle,
With his briefcase in hand daring someone to smile.
Fifteen minutes later, James quietly came out
Everyone looked at him questioningly, none knew took place or what it was all about
He turned and removed Scoff’s name from the door
And replaced it with Mr. J.C. Edwards Lotto winner, say no more...