Wage Slaves - Poem by Stephen Loomes
The wage slaves, hating their jobs!
We only do it for the money!
Back in the lift after the cigarette;
On the street
Where an elderly stately woman
Cranes her head
From the comfort of her leather seat
As her beloved husband reverses
Into the traffic, then glides the Mercedes
To the pedestrian crossing, waiting
For the youthful parents, cigarette in hand
Kids in tow, unemployed, poor, hating
Judging the comfort of wealth.
Cranky, perennially, at no rhyme or reason
What do anyone’s judgments matter
Whether they curse or flatter?
We carry the world in our head
As we travel into the future
Till the end of our season.
We move through space and time
With cohorts, friends enemies and lovers.
What we learn we end up forgetting
Except the wounds or kindness which lingers.
Entropy consumes the relics of our constructions
And the shame of our sometime destructions
When death which taps out our hours
Takes us into the the abyss of no-escape
Which we face alone, on life’s windy cape
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