childhood ends not with a celebration
but by the sound of an alarm clock,
with clothes laid out for you
not by your mother on your bed but on the sidewalk
by the governor / engines idling at red lights,
they never change, we never doubt,
we've been dying here for years,
isn't it strange that nobody ever gets out?
we remain in obedient slow pursuit,
we zombies of the morning commute,
we wageheads, we employable undead,
we were people once,
we listened to what the grown-ups said