TO WORK WE GO

The old blue van

Buckets its way through the

Pre-dawn darkness with its cargo

Of weary wage slaves, still sleepily uncaring;

Fuel for the furnace of commerce,

Sacrificing their life’s dreams to

The almighty dollar of survival.

A cigarette glows redly, a light

More smelled than seen, acrid

Nicotine pick-me-up, as if

Its consumption gives the smoker

The courage he needs to face what

The day will throw at him. I don’t know:

All it does to me is annoy my lungs.

The twinkling of the lights

In the houses by the side

Of the road and the riverbank opposite

Tells of warmth, dreams fulfilled,

Of someone who once was

Where I am now and somehow

Managed to free himself from his manacles.

12/20/94