by Thomas Banks (January 2021)
Self Portrait, Alexei von Jawlensky, 1912
(With Apologies to the Ghost of W.B. Yeats)
I guess that I will meet my fate
There in my office up above.
My boss I don’t exactly hate;
My wife I don’t precisely love.
My company is Finewic Floss,
My office on the seventh floor,
And when I croak, someone will cross
My name from off my office door.
Washed in the harsh fluorescent light,
Part of the fat suburban crowd,
I tell the mirror every night
“This quarter’s sales were up: be proud.”
I try to keep a happy mind,
But frequently feel out of breath,
And falling down, fallen behind—
My life my job, my job my death.
Thomas Banks has taught literature and Latin for many years in Idaho, Montana, and North Carolina, where he currently lives. Other writings of his have appeared in First Things and the St. Austin Review.
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