Work poem

She asks me to write about work,
as if there can be any hues worth
com­ment in this dusty place.
The clam­our and the end­less cry
of tor­tured equip­ment, squeal­ing beeps
and elec­tronic collisions.
I parry with flutes and viola de gamba.
We are drowned together.
Through all this, I must maintain
a visage of contentment.
At the very least, my cri­tiques are met
with dis­dain and laughter.
Our offices seep browns and greys,
faux wood and plastic desk sets.
Strangely, the back­drop is superb,
in com­par­ison: vibrant reds and greens flatter
stair­wells against stark walls.