after years of work
and seemingly endless pain,
my body droops and my
long neck has begun to crane.

my knuckles drag sluggishly
across every office floor,
sighs of defeat can be heard
behind every tightly closed door.

if there is hope then i have
trouble trying to find it,
but supposedly if i don’t
enjoy this i can always just quit.

i have shoddy knees and
creak much for a boy under thirty,
if there is some divine reward
i may land somewhere under unworthy.

physical can feel an emotional
loss or a terribly damaged psyche,
in this lonely office building
there are surely others just like me.

though after years of work
my posture i have corrected,
in the changing of calendars
i have straightened my perspective.

© Conor J. Josten