What a way to make a
living for the swap from synthetics to
denim beaten soft with country music
squashed into a dance
line. Overtly patterned shirts blur with
under-seasoned personalities as we
sway, stamp, grapevine through our hour,
allowing it to drive us crazy
if we let it.

All taking precious post-pay-packet moments,
no, casting a lifeline from labour,
crediting ourselves with that rare, precious honour:
joy. Respiring deeply, perspiring neatly. Step
two three four
shuffling majestically heeled cowboy boots
across a glossy varnished town hall floor.

Now on borrowed time,
our finite helium souls inflated once more,
we resume our verse,
stumble to the kitchen, reminding ourselves of
our allocated fun. Lives topped
up to their measured limit, we wish,
for nothing more than that one hour per week.