On Getting Sacked

ongettingsacked

The arm of a shirt I paid seventy bucks for
when I didn’t have the money is poking out
of the laundry pile as if hitching a ride
out of its slovenly neighbourhood.
In Sydney, the road not taken is characterised
by pot holes and speeding traps and brothels
while those on the motorway speed homeward,
their e-tags beeping. The shelves in the office kitchen
were stacked with Tim Tams, lollies, noodles
and low fat salad dressing. A photocopied
image of an attack dog threatened injury
to those who didn’t clean their dishes.
The CEO would run twenty kilometres
before eating her Paleo breakfast each day
and demanded our attendance
at compulsory yoga workshops.
Whenever a staff member would disappear
their name would be scratched off the cleaning
roster. It reminded me of Soviet Russia,
the way they’d rewrite history textbooks
to say New Zealand was full of cannibals
(for instance) and Australia full of criminals.
A history teacher in Moscow told me that.
In other news, on Monday I was sacked.
On the drive home, the road seemed narrower.

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