TGIF and the need for poems

So I have become increasingly disgruntled at my place of livelihood - a misnomer if there ever was one. And the disgruntlement does not stem from the usual job-related sturm und drang - because I love my boss, enjoy my co-workers, believe in the "product" and can write crack and fic most days . . .

It all comes down to personal worth and how many hours of life are left and how many I really have to waste on pushing papers around a desk or tapping out figures or smiling when I want to howl. That's all.

Beverly Rollwagen wrote it better. This is from her poetry collection, "She Just Wants" from Nodin Press.
It's simple. And perfect. Just the way poems should be. 

Employed

She just wants to be employed
for eight hours a day. She is not
interested in a career; she wants a job
with a paycheck and free parking. She
does not want to carry a briefcase filled
with important papers to read after
dinner; she does not want to return
phone calls. When she gets home, she
wants to kick off her shoes and waltz
around her kitchen singing, "I am a piece
of work."

sigh . . .  and then to prove that I really just need to sit ALL DAY and string words together, she writes this and I have to lie down and contemplate the way a sentence whittled down to its essence is just about the most perfect creation in the world.

Essential

She just wants to keep her essential
sorrow. Everyone wants her to
be happy all the time, but she doesn't
want that for them. There is value in
the thread of sadness in each person.
The sobbing child on an airplane, the
unhappy woman waiting by the phone,
a man staring out the window past his
wife. A violin plays through all of them,
one long note held at the beginning and
the end.

TGIF, y'all