From Poetic Asides.
Work
It wraps it’s leash around your neck
with colors and stripes and pictures
of guitars and little specks
that you can’t tell if they’re snails.
Who wears snails?
And your collar is down and your shoes are shined
You’ve cast aside your freedom you have to keep in line
with their rules and their timeclocks
until you retire.
Freedom at last!
Which you spend in bed.
Dead.
