Song Of A Worker Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

He never missed a day of work
even when birds fell dead at his feet
and he had to gulp down his morning cup
of bitter coffee unsweetened and harsh -
the ticking of the kitchen clock warned him
that time for him was all too fleeting

He had just so much time left in the factory
where he toiled among men and machines
as anonymous as a pebble among stones
crushed by the eternal wheel of industry
before he should be relegated to rusting
in the lot full of discarded parts and junk

He hardly ever thought any more of the green
fields of home and the once bountiful life
by the cool streams among flocks and herds
that he and his family had tended with care
No more the lavish days of youth for him -
now destined to decline into obsolescence!