Click here to listen to Jeffrey Skinner read this poem.
I've always had trouble with the boss, even when I was self-employed.
Why do I have to sit there for eight hours when I can finish the day's
work in fifty-seven minutes? And there was a flaw on the face
of the office clock, a flyspeck or mole between five and six
where the eye went naturally, as if to the corner of an otherwise
impeccable woman's lips. I kissed that flaw in my mind, over and over,
because I had nothing else to do. The idea of work is fine, but
must we put every idea into practice? The trees, which I sometimes
catch waving to me, seem content in every weather, as if they