Up to HR, two stairs at a time,
I smile inside, the future on my mind,
challenges ahead, a new horizon,
just want to check my pensionís in position.
Of course you do, he mouths to make it clear,
almost shouts, in case I cannot hear.
Head slanting stiffly into boyband hair,
he pats my arm, guides me to a chair.
Donít fret my pet, weíll get you what youíre owed,
youíve worked so long for it, he says, although
next time, save your legs, you should take care,
no need to clamber all the way up here,
just pop an email, ring me from below.
Just pop? Just now, Iím ready to explode.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Ann Gibson would
be pleased to hear them.