Envy

 

Neil Harding McAlister

 

  

The janitor who mops the floor

Is cleaning near the Boss’s door.                

He does this same old, boring chore

On every business day.                                             

What hope is there for working slobs                 

Who cannot mix with Board Room snobs?

He’d give his arm to have their jobs

And earn the Boss’s pay!  

His wife would dress in furs and jewels;              

His kids would go to private schools.

He’d wield a pen instead of tools,

And learn white collar ways.

 

The CEO is working late.     

On his tired shoulders rests the fate

Of each employee, small or great.

His brow is creased with strife.                             

His mind’s a storm of quotes and bids,                

Of profits, losses, charts and grids.                    

He barely gets to see his kids

Or wine and dine his wife.

Behind his eyes a migraine pounds,

Exacerbated by the sounds

Of Stan the cleaner’s evening rounds.

He’d kill for such a life! 

 

 © 2006, NHMcA

 

Thanks to Peter Austin, Angela Burns, Anne Maarit Ghan and Alice J.M. Lee for workshop assistance with this poem.