Hangers, Whips and Spikes

I am off.
I am up!
I am going!
Out into the world at an hour
My eyes have not yet seen. . .
Except, in closing.

Lunch loaded,
Bag toated,
I prepare to face another day,
With people
So boring,
So stupid,
So different than me.
So,
So what if I learn how to work?

This is a poor mans job.
I feel like a Migrant Worker.
We all do.

Were all in it for the MONEY.
We all come out of the field
Tired,
Hungry,
With red-necks and
Dirty faces.

So maybe were not so different!
But, maybe we are. . .
I see them with minds like a bank door,
Always open at the wrong times
And always closed at the right ones


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