In the call center cab
At an unearthly hour
Heading home...I think
Or to work maybe
Going nowhere in particular
Day and night merging
Into my lattice prison
No one wants to hear ME speak
Cause I get paid to talk
For I lament at my wasted humanity
Of the direction my life has so lost
And then I start to fantasize
What if this cab were to crash...
Yet I am not at liberty to revel in that fantasy
For it would cause her the greatest pain
To see her little angel squashed
Like a bug by the sidewalk
So then I get thinking
If only I were a machine,
That crash would not be so gruesome to look at,
Who would know which are my parts and which of the cars?
Sprockets, gears and pitiful hinges strewn about
That'be better to behold and comprehend
Then the mess of bloody flesh
Dented metal plates would not shock
Like cracked bones poking through the skin
And the stench of death would only be
Burnt rubber and some oil
Don't have to bother with dragging my carcass around
All you have to do is scrape and salvage my sick parts
Recycle my being till non is left or at the very least
Pile me in some junkyard corner and forget
As I lay, after all...
Rust is better then decay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem