A poem a week for 2012 - A record of a year in the life of...

...The Man on the Clapham Omnibus

I watched today as you boxed your life.
Photos, files.  The debris of long hours, 
indigestion, extra miles. As you held back 
words, staring angrily at spent youth, energy, 
your time, grizzling away under your feet 
until late nights, TV dinners, B&Bs with nylon 
sheets and soggy breakfasts faded into grey.
Even the corporate dos and 5star hotels did not
glisten for you.  Not then, forced mateyness
with strangers, ladder-climbing, back-stabbing, 
Always measuring themselves against you.

And you, calm, content, effective and kind,
ready with a treat for the girls in the typing pool.
A birthday card for the receptionist, brief banter 
about the footie with the porter.  You knew 
all their names, the teams they supported, 
their favourite foods, their bad days.
And tonight, you crept in, knowing they would not be there to see you box it all away.  


Years of knowledge, experience shelved.  
For what? High up in ivory towers, nameless 
others picked you tonight for their victim.  
Random, not personal. The greed of fat-cats plays 
out its corrupt hand, shadowing your shoulder.  
The thanks you get for loyalty, endeavour.  





And I watch you picking your way through boxes, 
a kettle, a couple of mugs. Your photograph 
with the big cheese, receiving some accolade
 for enabling him to get richer, quicker.
And I see behind your eyes, devastation, questioning.
Is this what it amounts to? All those years?
Your father knew.  He learned it late too.  





The greatest fraud.  Not the tooth fairy,
or Santa Claus but that simple idea that 
good honest work is its own reward. 
Really? Did you see the news today?




Will there be a 'banking Leveson' next?: Labour's two Eds demand inquiry into financial ethics – Daily Mail 29/06/12

More corrupt bankers…BBC news 29^th June 2012