Love Song of the Employee of the Month

1
he wakes up with a start, swears at the clock, puts it on snooze
till the TV alarm fills the room with yesterday's business news
he grumbles that it’s child abuse
his patience's wearing thin
and it's getting to him
getting up at exactly five-two
but he tumbles to the loo, brushes teeth and polishes shoes
and if he's quick, walks fast, jumps down the steps in twos
he'll have time for juice
and to buy a strip of aspirin
recharge his SIM
and maybe to wonder about life too

2
at the 'juice corner'; to be different, he orders peach
the old communist shakes hands and sits - the leach!
his patience will breach
deep breaths and counts to ten
he twiddles his pen
and tries to smile through the ordeal
the same empty talk about food for all and education for each
about some more freedom of movement, thought and speech
he stares at the beach
and wonders how ‘free’ are men
and wonders when…
as he solemnly dissects the fruit peel

3
his work doesn't add to much - it's neither here nor there
but he's someone who works well under someone’s glare
he's lazy but he's fair
he puts away his book
when the boss gives him a look
then looks extremely harried
on some rare occasions, he works madly on his share
the seat of his pants burns hot on the seat of his chair
then he helps the girl with nice hair
the lonely life of a rook
it is high time he took
a vow and got himself married

4
at one, in the lunch break, he sneaks out for cigarettes
and he goes to the lonely rooftop in the 'free' time he gets
he sits with his regrets
in the curling lazy curtain of smoke
thinks about some old joke
old friends... how we lose touch!
and since he's too busy to watch it all when the sun sets
he sits right there, lights another and unconsciously frets
(as he ticks off his debts
on the rusty old can of coke)
about getting broke
or too old; or smoking too much

5
he suddenly realises something and with a violent heave
he stands up and sighs and then rolls up his sleeve
there is no one to grieve,
if he is not around tomorrow
there shall be no sorrow,
if he just packed up and left
he realises there is no more need to deceive
and he thinks oh what a tangled web we weave
it's a game we believe,
we beg, steal and borrow
we come and grow and go
and no one's left bereft

6
that night he sits on the bench at the edge of the bay
as an old, bent man sweeps the remains of yesterday
scoops it in a plastic tray
shoos the curious sparrow
and wheels away his barrow
humming some old song
it has been a long time since he's felt almost okay
he's not in a hurry tonight, and tonight he will stay
till the dawn of the next day
he feels it in his marrow
but his bench is narrow
and is also somewhat oblong

7
he twists, tosses and turns; and wakes up a few times
he finally gives up, sits in the sand and writes a few lines
after sometime it rhymes!
it almost has a tune!
and he thought he was immune
to poetry and similar things
he continues doodling and draws flowers and vines
he starts feeling he's possessed, draws some vague signs
and the church bell chimes
he looks at the moon
isn’t it too soon?
for those three strained sweet rings?

8
he walks into the chest-high water and just for a scare
he imagines how it would be to walk in and not even care
of-course, he wouldn't dare
he couldn't even swim
and it just wasn't him
to take such a mad risk
but he plays it in his mind a few times as he stands there
while his fear and the wind claws at his shirt and hair
he pulls off the shirt, stands bare
he breaks into a hymn
and feels his senses dim
the sea is cold, painless and brisk

9
his head fills up with things and suddenly he’s reeling
he looks up at the feathery clouds that open unveiling
the ominous ceiling
of sporadic stars and black fate
that luminous gate
between now and forevermore
his heart is tossed and turned by waves of feeling
all comes back to him, the treachery, the stealing
in a way it is healing
was it worth the wait?
more importantly, is it already late
to make for the shore?

10
the tide has risen and sticks to clothes like resin
and he tries turning back but it still pulls him in
he feels death begin
and thrashes out madly
and he swims badly
drinks gallons of brine
but he finally wades to shore, drenched to his skin
and plastered on his face is one stupid glad grin
he has washed away his sin
he decides he will gladly
live the misery he saved exactly
in the nick of time

11
back on the beach he feels like a jerk
about to kill himself to avoid good-old work
the pay and the perk
he sits on the seat
brushes sand from his feet
no pain no gain!
“philosophical shit”, he says with a smirk
to think he nearly lost his mind in the murk
a foolish attempt to shirk
the toil and the heat
he crosses the street
and vows to never come again

12
from the next morning everyone finds it odd
he talks less now, all hemmed and hawed
though work’s never flawed
he’s unusually curt
some call him introvert
they wonder but usually let him be
but say something happened and struck a chord
he’s all set for the employee-of-the-month award
the young men are awed
but some small issues he does skirt
like that tattered shirt
the fishermen found floating in the sea