A Middle Manager Foresees his Death

(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.