Dear Father Christmas…

…Here I am again
In need of vacation:
Eyes on stalks with irritation,
Tiredness like I can’t remember
Since the very start of September,
Every ounce of my resolve
Propped up waiting to dissolve,
Sliding sideways down a glass
And waiting for the hours to pass
When all I’ll have to do is sit.
And sit. And sit. And sit, And sit.
No more fabricating tripe
Just to make the world seem right,
No more paper-crafting fun
Or hapless duelling staple guns…
No more sprinting up the hall
Averting behaviour set to appal,
Peeling from the Christmas tree
The one whose arbiter is me,
Singing nonsense to appease
Even when I’m on my knees,
Pulling rabbits out of hats
Perhaps the thing I’m best at.
Two weeks break should see me clear,
Going forth into next year
Wondering what the tide will bring,
Anxious as a coiled spring,
Knowing that the future’s bleak
With not much work out there to seek…
So, dear Father Christmas,
If you have a spot on your role
Help me find a job, please,
So’s not to go back on the dole.

 
*Anything legal considered. CV available on request.

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