Humor: A Collection of Poetry

3. 9 To 5

3. 9 TO 5

A new day is just another day,

I wake up early the morning.

A clock tells me it’s nine, time to begin,

A day-long stay at work again.

Through the crowded, hazy city I go,

Past towering buildings and other people.

I rush to the station to catch my train,

And take the bus for my final leg.

A typical, dressed-up office worker I am,

Shuffling through papers and playing with rubber bands.

My boss is like a prison guard, his office a tower,

As he watches over us inmates in cubicles from afar.

My friend sits two rows away much to his dismay,

He’s here with me, forced against his will to stay.

I wish I could start a fight with bands or a paper clip,

But I think that would get us both a pink slip.

High noon arrives and I have to rush,

Only a half-hour for my lunch.

Then it’s back to work in my cubicle,

Which I wish was much more suitable.

On my desk I watch my clock,

Glaring at it like it’s prey and I am a hawk.

It could not tick any slower,

It is as fast as the Hundred Years’ War.

“Finally,” I shout, the clock strikes five,

I shut down, jump up as it’s now time.

Out the doors of my building I fly,

Not caring if I have to stay for overtime.

Through the crowded, hazy city I go,

Past towering buildings and other people.

I take the bus for my first leg,

And rush to the station to catch my train.

A new day is just another day,

As I sit down at home to watch some T.V.

I look at the clock as my shows begin,

That a day-long stay at work awaits me again.