The machine steals
my craft, my joy, my trust
and even so,
the bosses want me to love it
and not just love it,
but nurture it,
promote it,
improve it with my labor
the labor it imperils
And if I refuse to save my soul,
the bosses' bargain is simple:
my daughter won't see her doctor
I'll never do this work again
Each day the vise
squeezes tighter around me
one day soon I know
I'll buckle—
I just don't know
which way
Either way betrayal,
either way a sort of death
a choice of which machine
I want to break me.
Knowing this
am I not
already broken?