I miss our good mornings,
Yours whispered like cotton,
Mine, croaked like a frog,
I haven’t forgotten.

An offering of coffee,
And a kiss for the road,
Our morning routine,
Always lightened the load,
It won’t do to remember,
Where people don’t cry,
No tearstains on ties,
Etiquette must prevail,
Fight tooth and nail,
Never seen to be weak,
During management speak,
Or you’ll be blue-skied into the belly of the python.

I miss our good mornings,
So meek and polite,
In light of proceedings,
The previous night.

I say a quick prayer that our corpulent ruler,
Won’t be stalking fresh meat round the water cooler,
I tack my boat north across the tiled, plastic ocean,
On the far shore, there’s already commotion,
He beckons me over with a taciturn flick,
Of his rosey head to discuss my predicament,
And soon enough I’m slathered in liniment,
A barrage from the HMS Halitosis,
The ill wind bears a grim prognosis,
A warning wrapped up in bromides and chat,
He duly delivers his box of dead cats:
Pull it together and do what’s required,
Meet the month’s targets or your arse will be fired.

I miss our good mornings,
I know that you meant them,
I did too,
And could never regret them.