Theft of time
When I was working with Los Angeles truck drivers in the 1970s,
one of the offenses for which their employers could fire them
was “theft of time.” But which class is the real thief?
Like Assyrians coming down
on a weaponless farm,
they steal our hours,
our thoughts,
our hope.
My face faking friendly,
my pockets empty of cash,
my mouth uttered the words
their ears lusted for,
words of loyalty, interest, and zeal.
When they said I had the job,
the earth moved,
seemingly a Spanish orgasm a la Hemingway,
but more likely the rumbling wheels
of Assyrian chariots.
For the right to earn food,
I sat hours at my desk,
messaging numbers into impenetrable prose, ignoring
family dinners,
daughter’s celebrations,
and my body’s needs:
My hours, months, and years sucked
by the mosquito tongues of employers
who grew fat upon my output.
Our lives, fears, energy, labor
transmute
into corporate aircraft flying over our lives
on their way to plantations of sweated labor
where the air now sings with the growling of tractors,
guzzling gasoline, guzzling hours,
guzzling lives.