Archive
07/31/09
Frastratz
Monday morning abruptly turns the corner, on Sunday night, And before you can bat an eye twice, Late Friday afternoon shows up on your workweek's doorstep,
Stranding you, in mid-gasp, Asking you to size up the extent of your repetitive efforts, Which you find yourself inadequate at doing,
Since accounting to others (in this case the powers that be, Who see to it that you get remunerated for your questionable duties), Has, from your very first day, been impossible,
Since they've never personally disclosed themselves to you, Preferring, instead, to maintain a shroud of mystery, secrecy, Which you've always found stranger than curiously disconcerting.
After all, laboring for an organization, corporation, consortium About which you know less than jack shit, bubkes, Even after forty-five years of loyal service,
During which your weekly paychecks have never skipped a beat, Is peculiar, to say the least, unnerving, weird, weirder than that. And what do they do with the stuff you help fabricate?
You've never had a clue. Who would? None of the other guys on the assembly lines does either, never has — Advanced Z-59-S Lackluster Fastratz, in red or black.
As to its formulations, applications, who purchases it — no clues. All any of you has ever been told Is that its purpose has to do with "enhancing national security."
(Sometimes, you wonder if your health has been compromised.) Everything's been so hush-hush, so clandestine, so sub rosa. Even your wife of thirty-eight years doesn't know what you do.
How could she, though, since you don't either? Now, you've got the weekend, to unwind from your whatever, Relax, over some cool brews, forget Fastratz, until Monday.
07/31/09
|
|||
|
|||
