WORK

They don’t like you. They’re just using you like
a rental car. They want you to help them. They want
their dominance conveyed on the cellular
level, each day subtly with your coffee, morning
memo and To Do list. Christmas cards speak

of friendship, the snowy hug of “God Bless”
salutations, the boss’s smiling children
on sleds. You are feeding those smiles, stuffing
their shiny Gore-Tex parkas with the fill
of your labor, keeping those kids blooming

to and from private school. Surplus value
is not a textbook subject but your last idea
starching market share. The gold watch someday
will tick bitter in its secretary gift-wrapped
box. Toasts will ulcerate the spasm

in your bad back, jabbing elbows of nostalgia
finding ribs to ouch. A plate of fancy bow-tie
pasta on your last day, the company treating
of course. They don’t like you still. And yet
you liked yourself enough to make work work.