This morning,
I watched a moth.
A tatty brown moth.
Struggling to be free,
it's wings were sodden.
It couldn't fly.
From that,
I drew the equation of struggling to work in a fast food joint.
Struggling to prosper, to be set free.
To relax.

Poor creature,
It was fighting hard,
Beyond redemption.
It was lured into the death trap of light,
As it buzzed into my kitchen overnight.

The moth was drowning.
So were the restaurant workers.
The workers have no breathing space,
They can leave at the end of their shift.
It's not the end of their tired lives.

Both struggling to break free.
Inevitably, the moth will expire.
The staff at the drive- through.
They might get second chances.
Unlike the moth from the night light.
They continue to dance,
At the end of the day.
As they flit away.
An honest days wages,
Bought a few pennies pay.
They can scrawl in their journals.
Their tales of the days.
Never lazy days,
The days when they worked at the fast food joint.
(C) Livvi