was uttered in a
computer generated,
non-demeaning,
gender neutral tone
by the impersonal,
unemotional,
automated,
grocery checkout machine.

"Enter your customer ID now!"
demands the artificial human.

"And... if I don't?"
I query the metallic shell
of what once was
a minimum wage employee.

There was no reply.

The shift has begun
I'm going into labor
I must fulfill my contractions
Before I die late
Will I produce something beneficial to the world?

I rest in quiet tribute and praise
for the exquisite joy
of this modest labor

Happy labor day
family, friends and picnics.
childhood memories

What percentage of the time

do you lie in that bed?
     the rest a waste
          of the metal springs
                    forged by
                    factory workers
                    pouring in their
                    unpaid overtime
                    to meticulously
                    shape the steel
                    into just the right
                    comforting bounce
     a waste
          of the soft cotton cover
                    picked by
                    (slave-descended) hands
                    white fluff
                    still echoing centuries
                    of black oppression
                    spun on foreign looms
                    shipped back
                    across the seas
                    dyed, woven,
                    stretched taut
                    into just the right
                    soothing texture
     a waste
          of the foam stuffing
                    made from...
                    whatever goes into
                    foaminess...
     how many hours wasted?
     daily
     weekly


What percentage of the time

do you write with that ballpoint pen?
     the rest a waste
          of the clear plastic casing
                    melded from petroleum
                    by corporations
                    extracting black gold
                    in exchange
                    for greenhouse gases
     a waste
          of the tiny perfect sphere
                    rolling smoothly along
                    tungsten carbide surface
                    exquisitely crafted
                    for maximum efficiency
                    by man's finest machines
                    factories churning out
                    thousands by the hour
     a waste
          of the bright blue ink
                    the mysterious mixture
                    of dyes and pigments
                    and oils and surfactants
                    spilling onto the page
                    recording your
                    delicate thoughts
                    in desperate
                    existential hope
                    they won't be as oft ignored
                    as that device
                    from which they pour forth
     how many hours wasted?
     monthly
     yearly


What percentage of the time

do you sit in that reclining chair?
do you walk in those polished dress shoes?
do you eat with that bent spoon?
do you style your hair with that fine-toothed comb?
do you turn the pages of your favorite book?
do you see by lamp's light in the guest bedroom?

     how many hours
     sitting unused, wasted?
          in a life

When a drop of sweat
from your chin lands between
a lover's *******, some women
will recoil in disgust.
Others will moan and get off
on your labor to deliver pleasure.
The dame who digs a little sweat
during the younger years
will mop it from your forehead
in the nursing home.

-Ron Gavalik

Lingerie rustles
As hangers squeak and strain,
Sliding across the sturdy bars
That hold retail up,
Cradling profits,
Like a fistful of bills,
Illspent.
I yawn;
Exhausted by such a drearily normal moment;
A weary reminder
Of the long hours ahead of me,
And the demands of my
Ever-watchful overlords.
Still,
my mind wanders,
Thinking that perhaps sleep will come easily tonight,
Despite the wakeful rest I've found here
leaning on this
cool,
white
counter.
Perhaps it will be time to leave soon,
And reach
for the sunny skies I can see
taunting me from beyond the glass;
To leave behind this dusty,
dreaming
perspective,
And leap into adventures,
as of yet,
unknown.
I sigh,
Returned
to be merely an observer to my working hell,
An unwilling participant
To the necessary waste
of a perfect Spring day.