Musing on the Boss Art
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old managers: how well they understood
Its harrowing power; how they took pride
In placing blame directly where it does not belong;
How, when those pursuing excellence are waiting
For the miraculous raise, there always must be
Perky-breasted new hires who survive by skating
On excuses at the edge of a not very good
Performance rating.
But even the most dreadful tongue-lashing must end
In a corner office, or the hall outside,
As the prairie-dogging cube-dwellers turn away,
And under-managers pretend they cannot see,
All relieved that the disaster did not spray
Its harsh, forsaken splash on them, and they pretend
There's no important failure. Fluorescents drone
As they had on the white face disappearing into the down
Elevator, and the expensive suits, whose every frown
Is feared, disperse, each trailing a delicate scent of cologne.
– marcus bales
View/Read W.H. Auden's poem Musee de Beaux Arts
This poem first appeared in Salt River Review.