We seem to meander along
slippery slope of careers
The daily grind for a few decades
We swallow it all.
Grinding the grist along our white capsule teeth,
long snowy commutes
endless on-call nights
Interoffice bickering, backstabbing.
Glass ceilings. Sick. days not taken.
Vacation time lost.
Frozen dinners never eaten.
Pay cuts, lay offs, pay offs.
Harboured and anchored by the promises
of the minor gods of Health Insurance.
So close to our retirement pensions.
Suddenly, our grip slips.
We fall into a tunneled abyss.
of our own design.
Now stumbling blindly
Through the once familiar.
Glassy eyes replace clarity.
Our itchy skin and clothes no longer fit
stitched haphazardly by pharmaceuticals,
doctors insist will help.
The anger and fear seem distant.
But so the spirit and the drive.
We sit muddled at our daily planner
Not invested in day or plan.
I guess that’s where
McCartney disappeared too.
I’m the Imposter in my own place.
Will they still need me when I’m 64?