Countdown
It takes six seconds for the pitch to change,
for the blade to shear through metal. A touch,
and the can opener hums to life, untiring
and electric. Reduce or prevent metal slivers;
only allow one rotation, the manual says,
as if people commonly feel an impulse toward
pointlessness. At work, everything grinds down,
the tremors of the conveyor against its struts
so fine and eternal, metal shavings dust the floor
silver. We only sweep when the line breaks, so
we never sweep. Instead, we pass the time
stealing glances at the crawl of the clock.
Three years, everyone says. That's how long
before you'll need surgery, but who cares
about the damage? Carpal tunnel, microtears.
Everything costs. Two years on the job
and I can no longer pick up coffee mugs
without pain or lift gallons of milk. My hands
fall asleep at the wheel, turn cadavers
in the night, so numb I can't recognize them
as my own. You can't take it with you, but
who works for money, really? I want
everything. Choices, safety, pleasure. Fuji
apples traded for Honeycrisp, rocking chairs
on porches, no check-engine light. All of it.
And if I can't have it, I'll take canned soup
opened by the world's most perfect machine:
no grip strength needed, no application
of force. Only that marvelous droning hum,
as unseen, hidden by the chassis, the teeth
catch and grind their slow way to dust.