Capitalism, The Failed American Dream Poem by James McLain

the damned alarm howls at 5 a.m.
like a thirsty rabid dog in the dark.
I throw my bones into a threadbare suit,
and drag my carcass out the door.

the streetlights flicker, dying gods,
the freeway hums a tired hymn.
coffee burns my throat—
fuel for another round in the machine.

the boss with his middle fat finger,
his gold watch, his ulcer breath,
telling me I'm lucky to be here,
lucky to have this endless grind.

I move numbers, push papers,
count the hours, count the minutes,
watch the clock like a prisoner,
like a dog waiting for scraps.

lunch is a stale sandwich,
eaten under a flickering light.
I watch men in pressed suits,
laughing over steak and wine.

back to the desk, back to the screen,
back to the same dead dream.
the sun sinks, the city groans,
and I drag myself home.

a six-pack waits,
a cigarette, a sigh,
some mindless TV to fill the void.
then bed, then dark, then nothing.

the alarm I hate, howls again.
another day chewed up,
spit out,
like a lifeless roach, life is gone.