by Alan J. Blaustein
I see them as I saw myself at work
Laughing faces, grim behind the voice
We smile like Dickens’ wretched clerks,
And wonder if we ever had a choice.
Submerged in work-time till we drown,
When everything within us has been drained,
Who can count how many lives go down,
Clinging to what fragments still remained?
Do we make ourselves or were we made,
Potter or the pot in daily life?
Logic breaks entangled when displayed,
Echoed in the working hours strife.
So are we us or someone else’s YOU?
No matter in the face of getting through.