Manual Labor Documented Poem by Raj Dronamraju

In 1988, I worked in a warehouse for a couple of weeks
Assembling desks for customer, cutting up my fingers
Forced to climb up high shelves despite my acrophobia
In 1984 and 1985, I washed dishes at two different restaurants a couple months each time
I could never get all the food off the plates
The migrant worker busboys looked at me curiously
In 1982, I did yardwork for my neighbours
Cut grass and pulled weeds
They paid me in cool, crisp dollar bills
But it was the summer not the money that made me dizzy

I can still feel the sweat
Where it gathered on my chest and back and soaked through my shirt
How it failed to warn me of the link between higher education and social mobility

Now I sit in an air conditioned office
With my fellow androids
And try to grasp the value of what hard work has given me
But all I feel is a different kind of tiredness

They broke the mind sometime after they broke the body
I want another body that acts as an extension of another's mind
This is what they ask of me and billions of others
I must work until they tell me I can stop