The Post-Industrial Retribution

by Joseph McCombs

Morning is a dull drum,
failing to resonate anything within me.
I kiss the sheets goodbye,
missing them more than anyone.

I have an office job,
a cubbyhole cubicle, where I
write jingles for commercials:
soaps, used cars, breakfast powders.

I never watch the recording
of my songs; I think I would
laugh too much, or even quit.
These are hard times to quit

and even harder times
to like what you do.
In the evening I buy the vodkas and videos
my friends write jingles for.

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