My reflection stares at me,
Or do I stare at myself in it
An assiduous morning; professionals,
And I see their reflection in my eyes,
Ache wound their shallow empty lives.
Professionals, living cancerous:death full
From the rags to the rich, their irritation is full,
Professional cleaners who wake before the sun,
An enjoyement of deception, but it pays the bills.
They commute to forlorn of comfort,
And ramble away from happiness that needs upkeep,
365 days of detestable good mornings,
52 weeks of inutile sweeping of streets;
Streets begrimed by those very good mornings.
Down the street I see professionals,
Parents, husbands, wives who lead two lives,
Professionals contemplating suicide,
Professionals who have two smile;
Smiles honest only to your eyes.