We Are The Workers
by Alan McGuire, with image above by Ehsan Ganji
You find new muscles everyday.
Emotions stay dead in place.
We’re productive yet recyclable.
We are the workers.
You can’t remember your holidays.
The clouds are steel grey.
The bus is late, but you don’t care.
We’re productive yet recyclable.
Internet banking with four codes,
You still have a smashed phone scree. Inbox full.
Change your password and dreams please.
We are the workers.
I open up my wallet, and finger too few notes,
reckon playschool fees and another pair of cheap trainers;
Wish I hadn’t booked that holiday.
We’re productive yet recyclable.
Endless eight hours of my soul
stabbing itself with a computer.
My neck aches. Are my shoes too small?
We are the workers.
My jellied brain throbs
From one-player mind games of precarity.
We’re productive yet recyclable.
We are all the workers.
