Itsara

The poetry class I was taking is over, and I promised Ray I would post one of my poems that had to do with his post on the culture of work in western culture. Since I no longer have a class as an outlet, I may inflict future poetry on you. You’ve been warned.

Commuters

The brake lights of
hundreds of cars
moving in rhythm
like unfinished pieces
on a conveyor belt.

Ten feet away,
through open windows,
I hear a man screaming
at the car in front of him
for going just a little slower
than the rest of us.

On the other side of me
there is a woman,
still in her bathroom,
applying her lipstick,
stopping inches behind the car in front
of her.

A man passes me slowly,
already at work
on his cell phone
starting a 12-hour day in which
he’ll be at the office for 8
and be thinking about it
for 24.

I look farther down
the conveyor belt
but I can’t see the part at the end
where they stamp,
mold,
process,
and mangle the material
to produce the carbon-copy
manufactured product.

Not me.
I’m getting off
at the next exit.