WORKMATE

She plays Farmville and pokes friends

on Facebook most of the day,

scans a few sites for celebrity gossip -

photos and headlines -

scrolling up and down independent.ie

every quarter of an hour or so.

At 15.10 she takes a break

and lounges for half an hour

with the other women on the scheme

eating brown soda with orange-and-duck-liver pate.

Then they sample black pudding

reheated from yesterday,

chomping fat and gut and gristle

over CSI, Dragon’s Den, American Idol.

Each one has something well worked-out

to say about the royal wedding.

Later on, closing in on 5pm - the goal -

she rises and jacks up the Korean office stereo

for Shakira, almost dancing

the way back to her chair.

Leaves max vol on for the jingles

witching for Stout,

for The Sound of Music

in the Grand Canal Theatre,

for cut-price bananas,

for less-than-half-price toys,

two-for-one Rioja,

three mince-meats for a tenner,

for closing-down firesales

of repossessed furniture.

Some of these ads she has

auto-didactically

learned

the dubbing of,

the how-to-hum-along-to

and when the DJ’s billion-kilometre tongue flicks

through the speaker

and into the room

to put a question to his nation:

whether it is right to cut the benefits

of those who refuse a reasonable

offer of employment?

she damn near leaps from her desk

with her very soul giving answer,

damn near levitates in an ecstasy

with her arms and legs spread out,

damn near crashes through the roof,

ascending to the satellites

and the space debris screeching

Yes, Yes, of course it is

Yes, Yes, of course it is, Yes.