No Time for Poetry

The DJ downstairs at L square seems to be running a stress test,

On the hostel’s construction, particularly the room where I nest.

And as my furniture bounces, in sync with the rapper’s cacophony,

The monster of a speaker was never more a sworn enemy.

I narrow my eyes, and try to concentrate,

On the 8^th version of my Résumé, nervous and irate.

Big submission tomorrow, this may be the one I anoint,

But profound realities aside, I need to reduce one bullet point.

My life seems a mess because my one pager is a two,

Metrics of judgment day, were never so cleanly few.

Yes I live in the coveted world, that by a page decides,

The worth of a human (of course, interview aside).

The interview phenomenon, is a test of courting skills too,

Add to that this damned recession, and it gets harder to woo.

And after those fateful 20 minutes, you await the sentence-pale,

Oh, no one is a failure, except obviously, the ones who do fail!

And while I write these deep words here, all Holier than Thou,

I also struggle, in another window, with my submission vows.

‘cause with the 3 liners and white spaces, I’m but another war wager,

A wastage here, a shortage there – its all Life’s cruel realities in a one pager.

But as I type these two dichotomies, one takes over,

‘Does it really matter?’, about my Word woes, I wonder.

And so, with that brave cowardice, I decide to call it a day,

(Though the feeling of doom lingers, never at bay.)

“If you can’t beat em, join em”, wise men propound,

Whether it is the human trafficking for jobs, or the bouncing furniture around.

I join the crowd and dance to the DJ’s tunes, not unlike placement day puppetry,

Busy trying to not be someone I’m not, I have no time for poetry.

Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

~Robert Frost