(Yea! Back on track. This poem is from the Poetic Asides prompt about work, one of my favorite topics.)
Is when the recession scythe
spares your job. Can’t say the same
for the guy in the cube next to yours
doing the same dirty work as you,
the one up to his neck in anguish.
What a terrible definition of progress,
but this is not your fate today.
You are part of a world full of things
it can no longer keep—nonessential,
I believe that’s the term.
Come to the going away party.
We’ll have cake and a card
with quotables such as,
“It’s been a pleasure,” and
“You won’t miss us at all.”
In truth, you are nobody’s star.
You are a cog in a machine
full of wonderful cogs,
all paper clips and rubber bands
like the ones at the bottom
of the desk drawer
you are lucky enough
not to have to clean out,
not today. And for this
you are thankful.