The worker

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



The worker

Lives a life

For family,

Connected irretrievably

But desperate,

Wanting more

For the next


Expecting nothing

But the gyre

Of want

That ever was

And will ever be.