these petty, leather-faced
and ugly men. Caught in
the machinery of life, maimed
and forgotten, unshaven and dumb
but moving, slowly, through the din.
And glory in success they claimed
until, their quotas filled, replaced,
their job was more than done.
Did any of them question their utility?
Not one. Their lives were a futility
and none so voiceless as the other.
I pictured foul old Frank's bones
his cigarettes, his gall stones
his rough hands, and his voice
that the death-in-cardboard racket used to smother.
These men never had a choice.
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