Where’s Monica? a colleague asked
The heating’s not turned up enough
It’s not as if she’s over-tasked
To take care of this kind of stuff.
Where’s Monica? another chimed
It’s 9:05, we’ve got no milk
Do we now have to have her timed?
Her job? Her breaks? Her type? Her ilk?
I never bother, you know me
Head down, work hard and see it through
But did she get the gluten-free?
If not, my bowels will turn to glue.
The printer’s low on paper too
Delivery was yesterday
It’s just one flight, it isn’t two
So why the need for this delay?
I saw her tumble down the stairs
The look of shock upon her face
Those sandwiches went everywhere
And crystal’s not cheap to replace.
What if she’s poorly, do we know?
Those files won’t files themselves today
Or HR, did they let her go?
For if they did, they didn’t say.
No, Monica is fine and well
She hasn’t quit, she wasn’t fired
Her colleagues didn’t hear her tell
In one week’s time she’d be retired.
So now she sits as each day ends
With husband, Jim, and the odd glass
And smiles at what she left for them:
A photocopy of her ass.
Mr Ormsby At Large 