This poem is my exit interview.
I’m giving HR my reasons for leaving.
They sit there like psychiatrists, taking notes.
I was happy to begin with, I tell them.
No new arrival could have asked for more:
kindly mentors to help me find my feet,
sleepy afternoons in the sunlit atrium,
a screen and keyboard to disseminate my work.
Records will show that I made good progress,
hit it off with colleagues and line managers
and met the targets I was paid to meet.
What’s changed then? No gripe about money or status
just a feeling I’ve accomplished all I can.
Oh, I know where I’m off to isn’t rated,
that no good word has ever been said of it.
But think of the perks. No stress, no deadlines,
no gossip by the water cooler, no sick building syndrome,
no team-building awaydays, no commuter gridlock,
no voicemail, nothing at all for ever and ever –
an unbeatable package, I tell them,
slamming the door behind me as I go.
From This Poem … by Blake Morrison.