The Warehouse

Working in a Warehouse
Where the whites push the paper and
The blacks pull the weight
Where the boss is the devil and
My head is what aches.

Where we’re lying to the clients
While we’re fighting over donuts.
Where we’re breaking city codes
While we’re covering our butts

No one sells their soul anymore
At least not the whole of it.
But it takes very little for us to
Sell them bit by bit.

Trapped in the traffic
Where the sun shines and bakes
Where the heat hits my head and
My head is what aches

Where I’m flipping off a moron
While I’m counting out my income
Looking back into the mirror
Seeing what I have become

Pulling down the visor
Switching through the stations
I’m not displayed in glass
I’m in protected isolation

I let down my guard,
I show all my scars,
I don’t see the people,
Sitting in the next car.

It’s the labor gang from work
Seeing in my window,
Seeing in my soul.
How much did I show?

One gives me a smile,
He understands my fear.
He rolls down his window
And passes me a beer.