I hear rumours about job cuts.
A whisper of mandatory retirement.
Rumours are almost always true.
I tense. Will the scorpion sting?
It’s still the dawn of the new year.
Resolutions made, hope still feisty.
Will next week see the year as new?
And squash the rumour like a bug.
There is nothing to be done, except wait.
A memo should hit us on Monday.
Or a silence so ominous, we quake.
A relief if it is but a rumour.
How selfish can I get on a rumour,
when the year-end brought the monsoon.
The east coast battered by floods.
Into the new year, recovering slowing.
To lack wisdom, or devoid of empathy.
Energy spent on worrying about a rumour.
Instead of lending a helping hand.
I am selfishly thinking about a rumour.
By C.E. Pereira