The Worker

The industrial northerners have arrived
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 insecurity,

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

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

 

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