Sunday Servitude - a reading (on YouTube)
The shrill cry of a leaf
blower.
The distant answer of its
rival.
Sprinklerheads chatter
warnings
As they spray territorial
rounds.
Or whisper quiet longings
For gray rains gone dry.
Weedeaters graze the shade,
Avoiding the heat of the day.
A push-button lackey
Opens the cell door,
Revealing six days of caged
neglect
For each of harsh disdain.
Lungs choked by oily grime
From their last morning in
the yard.
Stomachs filled with burning
fluid,
Fuel for this seventh day's
labor.
Bodies kicked and cursed
Until they spark to life.
With a crack of the
pull-rope,
The Masters drive their
mowers to the fields.
7/96
© 2017 Edward P. Morgan III
