The Worker

The industrial northerners have come
in black pill box hat and feather
to celebrate my death.

Even the controller in his cashmere coat
who drove us so hard in those chemical years,
applauds my generosity of sweat.

His board decisions warmed homes, fed
families, as we sat shackled by security,
numb cells in pin stripes,

clock watching at docking stations,
buzz, buzz, buzzing for the bottom line.
No, I’m not fine!

I’m a jewel whore lost in this daily grind.
So, I moved to a bigger house, but
the family table is still there, bare.

Where is it still written?

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