Work a Day

You break your fucking back for them
day after day.
The sweat rolls down your face
and it's goddamn miserable.

Everything hurts, especially your neck
from nodding. It'll all get done. You assure
them. They frown.
   You're back to it again, the invisible servant
   with brittle bones. Always complaining on
   the inside. On the Inside. But it's too quiet
   for them to notice. You want to shout. You
   want to loosen your belt, unravel it from your
   pants, and wrap it around your clenched fist.
   You want to beat them to death with it.
              But
                  first things first.
You refuse to die in prison, but you're already
there. There's little difference. But you cling to
freedom. It would be easier to just walk away.
Be like that guy you pass on the street corner
every day on your way to work. He doesn't
seem to mind. Maybe you won't either.
              But what about
                        all the shit you've collected?
                            Fuck . . .
   You'll give it away and start fresh.
   You could be that guy. Or maybe
   like the little old lady without teeth,
   gumming her way to nowhere. She
   seems nice even if she smells like
   piss.
                  No.
                     They've got you by the
                                                     throat.
You're doomed. You can never walk away from
all of this. It's in your veins when you cut yourself
from the wrist up. Does anyone else get this shit?
Maybe it's just you. Maybe it's all of us.
           Maybe you'll just keep
                    breaking your fucking back
                          for them day after day.