No romantic ballad about his nine to five routine
No sonnet for the bee in her bonnet
No stanza that depicts them hunched over that crooked table
Streams of numbers
Newly printed paper

Their morning coffee is just coffee, not inspiration
That cigarette she nurses isn't for the ache of her soul
His trembling fingers aren't borne of fear or hunger
They're both just striving for another weekly wage slip that doesn't stink
Of cheap alcohol and easy As

She takes the bus and sits in front and hears the new jingle
And it's catchy and it's cute and it's all about beauty and yes, she's hooked
Hums it through the day while punching on the calculator
Some day she'll get the hang of that Excel data

He's found something wrong with this new entry
Fraud or loss or some major flaw that gets him all sweaty
And worried and cross because who's gonna take the blame now
It's all so exciting this moment he gets to take
A decision, so sweet, the exhilaration he can barely contain

And they're both heading home on the metro
The sun is slipping quick, it's winter
The storm of emotions recedes into the ether
There are no words for this silence that echoes
No painfully decorated portrait of depression
They're just two people whistling away on the metro

And trust me, I know,
Capitalism didn't burn their heroes
And yet.
There's no poem for the accountant