Half past five,

Post work hours,

I walked through

The narrow passageway

Towards the parking lot,

Where cigarette smoke

From agitated employees

Occupied entirely.

 

They complained about

Managers, underpayment,

And too much work

For too long while,

And I added-on to

Nine-to-five.

 

Besides the backlashing

Was the backdoor

Of a busy restaurant,

At the edge of the door

Stood the young man

Who’d incessantly

Mop the floor

For twelve hours,

Often making

Our nine hours

Seem manageable.

 

He’d clean his

Electric guitar until

It looked brand new,

Said he was going

To perform along

With his crew.

 

He has never looked

Tired or fatigued,

He is always

Hard-wired and intrigued;

No matter what he does,

Regular tasks or art,

He does it with

All his heart.

 

Although he belongs

To the same beehive,  

He looks after

His electric guitar

To keep his passion

Forever alive.

 

Speak of finding

Inspiration from

Unusual places,

I felt secluded from

The unanimous thought

And ubiquitous rants

Of extended work hours

And sleep deprive,

I no longer

Complained about

Nine-to-five.