well-oiled american machine

i’m up

my hand for the soap

my hunger for the oatmeal

out the jar

go work

climb steps

quads hurt

shoulders hurt

back hurts

slit down the finger from sharp

edge of cardboard

pressing labels onto boxes

as I see off travelers through my

fingertips

when will I be released?

fingers clicking like cogs

clacking

clanking

groaning

moaning

honing

motor skills to plan another thoughtless day

spent all day eating and drinking

all night throwing up

the cogs — 

one by one

that rattled down the sound pipe

the day that all the music

stopped short in iron throats

the day that Amazon workers went on 

STRIKE

a mother is crying

crying over her son

killed by the police —

moon says to go to sleep

poet says — RESIST!

and every day he got up

and reached for the soap

and ate breakfast

and kissed his mother with bloody lips

and kissed the boy

furtively

at the bottom of the stairs

and sang at the café until 3am

and then came home

reached for the soap

to clean his whole body —

his soul —

but nothing helped

now, his body lies slack, oil covers his skin

dripping black cog grease

on this well-oiled american machine

but as his eyes cloud, the oil clears

and I guess he wasn’t made of metal after all