"9 to 5" - Bahamas AI Art
©A. Derek Catalano
Get a Steady Job
The morning mist is thick and grey, a blanket on the street,
As echoes of the alarm clock start their rhythmic, jarring beat.
They say the world is waiting for the bold and for the brave,
But mostly it is waiting for the worker and the slave.
A piece of sage advice is whispered, often with a sob,
"Forget your dreams of stardust, son, and get a steady job."
It starts with starch and ironed shirts, a tie that’s pulled too tight,
A transition from the dreaming hours to fluorescent, buzzing light.
The cubicle, a padded cell, a square of grey and tan,
The blueprint for the future of a sensible, grown man.
No more the paint-stained fingers or the lyrics on the page,
Just the comfort of a steady hand within a gilded cage.
"There’s dignity in labor," so the ancient masters told,
To trade the fire of youth away for silver and for gold.
To watch the clock with heavy eyes and pray for five o’clock,
While life is ticking, leaking out, like water on a rock.
The benefits are structured well, the dental plan is fine,
It compensates for all the things you’ve left behind the line.
The boss is not a villain, just a man who played the part,
Who traded in his telescope for a spreadsheet and a chart.
He talks of synergy and growth, of "pivoting the brand,"
While you are drawing secret maps upon the desert sand.
He says that hard work pays its way, that loyalty is key,
But loyalty is seldom found in a corporate decree.
The weekends are a fever dream, a frantic, brief escape,
To shake the dust of Monday off and change the heavy shape.
But Sunday evening brings the gloom, the shadow on the wall,
The realization that the desk is waiting for us all.
"It’s stable," say the relatives, with nodding, certain heads,
"It keeps the roof above your porch and butter on your breads."
They never mention hollow eyes or the quiet, slow decay,
Of all the bright and burning things that work has washed away.
They never talk of symphonies that died within the throat,
Because you had to stay on deck to keep the house afloat.
The steady job is heavy armor, thick and made of steel,
It keeps you safe from poverty, but numbs the way you feel.
The seasons blur in office halls where windows do not stay,
And years are measured out in files and invoices of grey.
You get a raise, you get a watch, you get a plastic plaque,
A reward for never looking out and never looking back.
You’re a pillar of the neighborhood, a credit to the town,
Because you kept your spirit small and kept your anchors down.
Yet sometimes in the midnight hour, when all the world is still,
You look out past the driveway and the house upon the hill.
You wonder if the artist lives, the one you used to be,
Who wanted nothing more than just to sail the open sea.
But then the morning comes again, the coffee starts to throb,
And you remember why you chose to get a steady job.
It’s the rhythm of the safety, it’s the silence of the fear,
It’s the price we pay for knowing what will happen every year.
A long and winding epic of the predictable and plain,
Of trading in the lightning for the safety of the rain.
So button up your jacket now and join the morning mob,
And do exactly as they said: Go get a steady job.
©A. Derek Catalano/Gemini
