This is one of the last poems I wrote before my laptop was stolen. Or rather, a different poem with some of these elements, as I cannot remember what I wrote, but I do know it was very different from the snippets I had in my notebook. So here is an attempt to recreate the feel of that poem.
Each day he wakes when dawn
is cracked, egg-like, on a sleepy fog.
Before the mist clears, he pulls on lurid togs
and sets to pound the streets
The thud of trainers swells his head,
gives voice to remarks left unsaid at meetings,
those witty exchanges he rehearses right up to the door
of his boss.
Only at dawn can he come up with answers
only dawn gives him good honest sweat
which he sluices off in the shower.
On go tie, shirt, cufflinks, the uniform of corporate man,
socks the only choice in his day.
The next few hours, many hours, his will be silent,
his voice be muffled,
his prayers unanswered.
The killer is not change
but perpetual continuation
to stupid lengths and beyond.