The Morning Prayer in the Office Temple
At 6 AM, when the smartphone’s harsh alarm rings,
The world that will soon unfold before me waits.
“Come forward, my believers.”
We stand in a long line
Before the gates of the temple.
Some smoking, some sipping coffee,
And others caught in hurried phone calls.
At last, the temple gates swing open,
And I desperately gulp down coffee like holy water.
The boss enters the meeting room.
With a report in one hand, and an invisible crucifix clutched in the other.
His sermon is long, but the conclusion is always brief.
(The conclusion: “Repent!”)
Praise is as rare as a printer’s paper jam,
But criticism is as precise as an alarm clock.
Success bursts into flames under his holy name like lightning,
While mistakes must be reflected upon with tears of repentance.
Meetings drag on like endless worship,
And our notes pile up like sacred scriptures.
The moment he asks, “Is this the best you can do with a report?”
My new goals are hollowly reset back to the beginning.
His questions are like the Riddle of the Sphinx;
The answer is always hidden on page 6 of yesterday's minutes.
Yet, if I dare propose a brilliant idea, he smiles and says,
“Ah, I have been thinking about that since long ago.”
Lunch supposedly offers freedom of choice,
Except we must whip the speed of our own tongues
To match the frantic rhythm of his throat,
And the loud, crushing crunch of his chewing.
Still, I think to myself:
I am not truly me; I am only an existence meant for you.
Today again, bound by the shackles called his “Vision,” I march forward.
When the clock chimes for freedom, the temple lights dim,
And we prepare to return to our own small universes.
“Ah, I must hurry home to see my baby kitten!”
The very moment I lift my heavily crushed seat from the chair,
The boss proclaims:
“We have a team dinner tonight. Attendance is mandatory for everyone.
Consider it an extension of work. Your performance review is coming up soon, isn't it?
Ahem, ahem.”
‘I prayed so hard today, yet I am cast into hell after all.’
“My Lord, why hast Thou truly forsaken me to this inferno?”
And so, only in my wild imagination, do I cry out:
Oh, my dearest boss, in the name of the Lord,
“It is you who must repent!”
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
