The worker
Lives a life
Of singular existence,
Existence framed
For someone else.
The hands of
The worker
Move in rhythm
To the repeated music
Another plays.
Held in
This immutable cycle
By the chains
Of need,
The worker
Has no
Way into
And no way
Out of
The machine.
And relentless
Is the machine
That produces
And takes,
With little
Given back
Except fragments
That might be enough
To keep death’s
Hand still.
The worker’s
Body is owned,
Owned and taken,
Owned and shaped
Like clay moulded
To the factory
Floor.
The worker
Lives a life
For family,
Connected irretrievably
But desperate,
Wanting more
For the next
Generation,
Expecting nothing
But the gyre
Of want
That ever was
And will ever be.
28/5/2016