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ANDREW PYE

STAFF ROTA 

Listed alphabetically,
my little blob of a surname can be found
- amongst Cuttlebutt, Kowalski and Littlebrown-
halfway down the printed column,
given away by the wake of its vapour trail of white space.

Beside them, a grid for days not yet here, in-filled
with future work-hours calculated by The Computer.

I memorize the coming week-like a Las
Vegas gambler remembering a card
sequence as a journey (the ace as a tree; the nine as an inn)
-as a line of seven drinking glasses, evenly
spaced, in slight perspective; the largest at left;
the smallest at right; in mid-air suspension before
skyscape of stone washed denim and smeared clouds
-a Magritte; or a late '60s bedsit poster.

Wednesday and Thursday,
my two days off, glint emptily;
the others are top-half full of golden syrup
as Fm doing the midnight to noon shifts.

And I plan to take five deep breaths,
inflating cheeks and holding nose,
jumping in with both feet,
wading through this treacle,
swimming feet-first,
until I can reach those breaths -of-fresh-air
which are my noon-to-midnights off.