Boss Poem by Job Ombati

My boss is a good man.
He is a generous man.
His generosity is widely famed
in our company
and far into the ruffled village,
where many of his copylets
are strapped to their mothers' bony backs
or kick improvised soccer balls
on dusty fields.

He's good.
He frequents the toilet
and allows us gossip
[gossip is good! ]
As usual,
the gossip stops the moment he's back,
and, as always, he starts:

' Ladies and gentlemen—

Where were we? '

We muffle the obvious rejoinder.

His fingers are thick,
thick as elephant feet.
They make a dull sound
as they tap the table impatiently.

Forgetful;
he sticks a finger
in his nostril,
or takes his hand
under the table
to scratch his groin.

He hates intellectual discourse
and long meetings—
just before lunch!

His eyes continue to search.

© Poems for Humanity
[Thursday,7 May 2026: 8: 50 p.m. - Narok]