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It’s been too long since I’ve posted.  Parenthood, Summer, life, holidays, studying, work, you know.   I thought it was time I posted another poem in The Passengers series.  My current workplace does not require me to wear a tie.  It was mandatory at the job before that.  What does it all really mean?

Tied In

It rustles gently,
silk tie on nylon shirt.
Coiling against my book
smelling of the day;
polluted train stations.
Silk, yet the weave
coarse.
Shiny ripples.
Deep purple fibres,
contrast with lilac fibres;
crossed with straight
navy thick lines.

The tie was a leaving present;
Legal and General;
chosen by Anthony Jones,
(tasked with finding the most ugly).
I was leaving a company
with a casual dress policy.
For an accountancy-led company
That insisted on ties
at all times.

My soon-to be former colleagues were disappointed.
The tie, not too bad; Anthony Jones’ taste,
too conventional to be lurid.

I never wore it at my next job,
or the next, or next.
Until now.
I have embraced the shiny purple tie.

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