Electric saws
of perpetual labor
grind the midnight air.
Some who aren't competing
with lean muscle and motion
gamble away the fluorescent hours
in tiny rooms of dice
and dominoes of cigarettes.
Where I once awoke
at the whistle of a distant train,
now I am pulled from slumber
by a return to silence
At 4am
a complete hour
before the swish swish of
the sweepers begin
to tell me it's ok to contribute my filth
to the common good.
If this is the common good,
then what is it called
when three people do the work of
three people? It might be called
un-American.
But what do I know...
I am one person
doing the work of zero people,
paid to be un-Chinese. Proof
that red dollars can rent a dream
more vivid than my own claim.
By our hands
I am turning inside out.
When I speak
promise me you'll always be amused?
And when you stop staring
will I have disappeared?
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