Choices

Hand reaches over, fumbles for the clock,
search the flat for the last clean pair of socks,
stumble outside into another rainy Tuesday.
Take your place in the traditional way,
‘Metro’, coffee, nothing to say.
The bus stop is crowded- the smell of sweat and cheap hairspray.
Bus draws up, doors hiss, the bodies pile on,
(yours), one of the faces whose youth’s almost gone
(and which) look out on a world that they feel is not of their making.
Lock yourself away in your white-headphone world,
emotions on shuffle, think back to a girl.
the way she smiled when the world was still there for the taking.

In this moment, in this moment you see
that this isn’t how it has to be-
you could stand up, understand what it means
that you are still free.
But these moments, these moments they pass
And you’re left there, sitting at the glass
Looking outside, or is it inside?
You don’t
You don’t quite know.

22 minutes, you’re back on the street,
ignoring the desperate pleas from your feet,
for cigarettes, small change, or, failing that, some compassion.
You walk on through litter and the city swell,
garish shop windows pitch the hard sell
to children with wide eyes in thrall to the latest fashion.

In this moment, in this moment you see
that this isn’t how it has to be-
you could stand up, understand what it means
that you are still free.
Then this moment, then this moment, it flies
and it leaves you there, rubbing your eyes.
looking this way, looking that way.
For what?
You don’t quite know.

Turn into Quay Street, the building’s still there,
along with the doorman’s Napoleon stare.
You put on your best smile and your daily face of pretence.
You enter the lift, press for the 15th floor,
nod at your colleagues, turn and face the door,
and start counting seconds until this awkward silence ends.

In this moment, in this moment you see
that this isn’t how it has to be-
you could stand up, understand what it means
that you are still free.
Then this moment, like all moments, it fades,
with the love and mistakes that you’ve made.
But the choice- how to use your voice-
comes again.
And this time you know.

*




Now, when the doors open you walk out,
Your head high, you have no doubt.
It starts here.
So you say “I’m not going to work today,
well, not for you anyway, 
and not for fear”.
When you leave, you may wear your heart on your sleeve.
They may laugh at what you believe.
But fuck them. Who cares?
So you’ll walk, down into the city streets.
And with a lightness inside your feet,
You head for the stairs.
 


outoftheoffice