Workdays

[prolixfootle]

What is a day?
A string of twitchy hours
strung out,
a tribulation to stomach
as clock hands, static,
mark non-instants
in a continuous purgatory.
Waiting, waiting,
as bugs murmur
in corporation lingo.
Politicos clawing,
always upward,
crushing dutiful grubs
who toil in obscurity.
And still no conclusion in sight.
Toil, labor,
for naught (but a tiny salary)
no triumph, no worth,
no glory of spirit.
And still, and still,
until Psychosis alights
and acuity dims.
Or, most probably,
clocks catch pity,
unknown to you,
and carry on
marking daylight;
bugs adjourn
and workday purgatory
wraps up
and a fun/individual span,
scanty though it is,
starts.
What is a day to you?