There’ll be a day—
hell, maybe it’s here already—
when you won’t need the job,
the boss,
the 7 a.m. shuffle to the train.
you’ll sit in your room
peeling an orange,
a bottle half warm,
and the rent paid
by some faceless program.
they’ll send the bread,
the beans,
keep the lights on.
the machines will cook,
stack the shelves,
drive the trucks.
and the suits will call it progress,
liberation.
but no one will teach you
how to spend your hours
when no one wants your sweat.
the young ones will stay inside,
skin pale as the screen glow,
dreaming of trips they’ll never take.
the old men will sit on porches
with paper cups,
telling each other
how they used to swing a hammer,
lift crates,
punch a clock.
and me?
I’ll sit in the dark
and watch it all spin
without me.
