Cleaned cups sitting on the polished detergent table
no longer contained with dirty coffee and grime.
The grime that once sustained a red eyed worker
for his endless hours of push and grind
and the woman who tirelessly pushed and pulled
the vacuum of suction at the home.
Now the man and woman sit together joined
only by a square of light on a large electric box
sitting in dull, monotonous office blocks
wasting away accounting and organising to the nth degree.
No longer does man reside on the pedestal of rock and labour
but now sits on a lesser sledge, just in a sea of faces.
Can I just say I am not overly proud of the meaning that I may have shown in this blog, but I can say that Murray is a bad poet, and my poetry is better fo sho'!
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