Job Centre Blues

[heslopian]

Job centre windows fascinate me as I wait to be called to a booth.
On metal springs they open just a small, measured distance.
I imagine they're so to prevent suicide, young mum leaping from the ledge
on hearing that her fortnight's dole won't cover a hair extension.
I work with what I'm given. In this case the job centre,
its mawkish photos of the middle-aged: a hennish woman,
big brown eyes, white teeth and dowdy hair, opposite a red-faced man,
who looks like he survived the movie Trainspotting.

I suppose they symbolise those on the dole,
in a world where laziness was left behind by nature's scheme.
I should have brought a book along, I think as time wanders.
Adjacent on a low table are engineering magazines, some politics
and articles which read to me like algebra. I'm sitting in a blue armchair,
down a short gray corridor, ended on either side by desks,
computers and telephones. I feel as though I'm in Yemen
(a place to which I've never been). I work with what I'm given.