Be Grateful You Bitch

Because the system names obedience professionalism.
 Because alarms build consent.
  Because the office buys your future, sells you certainty by the hour.
   Because the job takes Monday and your Sunday night.
    Because the commute is a tax with no receipt.
     Because gratitude is theatre: smile, nod, “lucky to be here,” while someone clips        the coupon on your time.
       Because we confuse need with freedom.
        Because debt masks as opportunity; interest compounds on hours.
         Because productivity is motion in costume; meetings are where dreams die.
          Because the dividend is time; you hand it in at reception.
           Because rent is due, children need shoes, visas have clocks.
            Because molars tally; diaphragm counts laps; jaw locks, breath counts, ten                    thousand surrenders.
             Because craft returns you to yourself; grind leases you back in fragments.
              Because some shifts restart hearts; others run the rinse: card swipes turn                    the drum, policy foam, panels spin; the ledger dries whiter.
               Because the machine will not love you for feeding it.

As the only applause you trust is your own in an empty room.

F.S.F.