I walked below
The neon lights.
Dark sky flashed
against the green of slavery.
I puffed a cigar
My jeans have holes
My shoes are split like pistachios
With my black socks
Looking like Swiss cheese
I groan.
I ease myself down the concrete
To sit on the curb
Of the grocery store wall.
3:55 Am,
the boss is late
I hate my life.
I think of death
I think of bombs over Bagdad
I think of 16 year old prostitutes in the Philippines.
I think of Iraqi children reveling over trinket bullet shells found in their playgrounds.
I think of oppression.
I think of segregation
I think of solders dying for lies
I think of Jesus on the cross
I think you leaving Me,
And I think of this job.
They never ended slave labour.
They only started calling it a job instead.
Oh well.
At least I am alive.
The boss rolled up.
He unlocks the door.
We go to work.
I hate my life.
I think of death.