I work for them

I work for them,
waking to make the tax
dollars for these women who,
when given a hard up in
the short wait of the express line
shower insults our way.

traveling to fill the void for the lonely vegetarian
waiters littering the pathetic
chain restaurants
stuck offering grilled burger
in airports.

smiling for the hippies
who wear new leather
moccasins as they devour
the latest text messages from
their distant lovers.

labouring for hours to
earn my ends meet for the
women flaunting north american
middle class elitism in
their sheep skin UGG boots.

snoring for the bus drivers
who in between combing their
germanic red hair
goatees, they take tickets
from children and load
seniors’ luggage into the coaches’ underbelly.

bumping into the delicately
polite immigrants who
justify tiers of labour
and unjustifiably low wage levels.

obeying the smartly dressed
suits who want nothing
of me other than my lack of presence in their
errant-filled path.
I work for them.