Weary Professional

My first attempt of a poem, using first peson voice.
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What is more exhausting than a whole day work?
What is more stressful than a tight deadline project?
A professional, I used to be; now a jobless dad with two kids to feed.
I went back home with the big envelop, only to find my wife’s exciting look.
Anther baby is expected, she said, and hopefully I would soon get promoted.
The word “layoff” came to the tip of my tongue;
Yet I curbed it, and tried to smile somewhat hesitant.

Everyday I still wake up early like a professional will.
Wearing a suit, my wife will help make my tie.
I take the TTC going southbound to Bay Street,
cologne, briefcase, and Business Week.
Take out my Blackberry every minute,
pretending clients need me as advisor, who offers them much wit.
I elbow my way to get off from Union Station,
like a veteran in the corporate jungle.
Fittest survives, stepping on others’ toes and heels are just fine.

Another listless day! Wasting, struggling, whining, agonizing and pretending.
There is nothing I can do, no place I can go, no one I can share my shame.
“Outlook” no longer shows me the agenda; painful to pretend I am still a lawyer.
I sit at a table in Timothy’s, starting my day reading magazine with some intensity.
I planned my exact response if I bump into different acquaintances.
You know, the next big thing, great opportunity. Waiting for me, I can not miss.
I spend the afternoon wandering in Eaton Center, window shopping and
imagining how I could have spent the annual bonus, which I would never receive.

Squeeze into the train going back to the North. It is rush hour.
People were moving back and forth like dominos.
My shirt is wrinkled, making me more like a weary professional.
My wife would ask me about my day and my hypothetical project.
Same old, same old. It is exhausting. It is stressful.