Métro, boulot, dodo

In my factory, we work thirty-hour days
and ten-day weeks —
with two or three foremen to every worker.

They treat us like slaves
they jostle, they shout
and the pay’s in kind.

We’re on call, we’re on tap;
our job description balloons daily
in step with their spongiform minds.

We write reports for them,
clean up their excrement;
be chauffeur, be chef.

We drive trains for them,
build roads and zoos —
sing them to sleep.

Even in our cots, we beaver on:
producing milk, dreaming up plans, tactics
for surviving the morrow.

It’s a game of tip, except we’re always ‘it’ —
we can never win, and we can never lose
and the rhythm repeats.

When they leave us, at six
some do get even luckier,
grubbing now for fresh despots, in tandem with the old.

Yes: Working Mother — a SWAT operation
asleep on her feet
and cuddled to death.