Whippersnappered
 
Up to HR, two stairs at a time,
I smile inside, the future on my mind,
 
challenges ahead, a new horizon,
just want to check my pension’s in position.
 
Of course you do, he mouths to make it clear,
almost shouts, in case I cannot hear.
 
Head slanting stiffly into boyband hair,
he pats my arm, guides me to a chair.
 
Don’t fret my pet, we’ll get you what you’re owed,
you’ve worked so long for it, he says, although
 
next time, save your legs, you should take care,
no need to clamber all the way up here,
 
just pop an email, ring me from below.
Just pop? Just now, I’m ready to explode.

Ann Gibson

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Ann Gibson  would be pleased to hear them.