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Poem
She slips in late, almost every day,
begins her work, though it’s mostly play,
first catches up with her office mates---
every detail, her loves and her hates;
each story repeated several times or more,
to everyone passing her wide-open door;
after some minutes, she grabs up the phone,
most often personal, frequent calls home,
how many messages can one woman take?
Guinness should be called, for heaven’s sake.
Some little tragedy and the drama begins,
so many times, taking all different spins,
each little event spun for more sympathy
in grand scheme to move up the company.
Then acting begins, depending on need
as she maneuvers for additional leave.
How can that be? Can there be more time
left over on this generous company’s dime?
So by morning meeting, is anything done?
Likely not, but she hoodwinks everyone.
“Oh my. I’m so busy. I think I must ask---
someone else here to take over this task.”
Then down comes the boss, and up in a flash,
she’s amazingly quick in the three-meter dash,
 “Look here old man, see what I did for the job?”
And in response his weary head starts to bob,
“such a good girl, keep up the great work,”
and we all know she’s angling for a new perk.
 “I worked hard at home, for at least two hours,”
she tells the guy who holds all of the powers,
while under their breath her coworkers sneer,
“she doesn’t even work when she’s stuck here.” 
After morn meeting she’s back on the horn---
to mother, brother, broker, lovelorn,
not to mention her bevy of needy friends,
to whom her ear she willingly lends.
Now---perhaps---she’ll get some work in,
unless it is time for her daily luncheon.
Scheduled an hour for her time to eat,
but ninety-five minutes she seldom will beat.
And then for three hours in the afternoon,
if she works even one, it will make her head swoon,
although she’ll get up for the middle-day break,
she never misses it, don’t make that mistake.
Finally the day reaches five on the clock,
but somehow she slipped out---with earlier flock!
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