I write sonnets on sticky notes at work
While waiting for daily reports to load.
I’m just a lowly inventory clerk
Problems and discrepancies I decode.
We all have got lives outside of our jobs
Though some are unlucky and unemployed.
Outside wall street some of these folks form mobs
The image we’re force fed as kids: destroyed.
I silently revolt with my trite verse
Getting creative on company dimes.
The poetic form I like to rehearse
Searching for syllables, meter, and rhymes.
Still, a job is a job, and I’m lucky.
Doing nothing all day gets so yucky.