Conveyor Belt
"Just get your titles, stick to study, son,"
she used to say, "no matter what it takes."
She saw me as the family's Chosen One,
escaping that conveyor-belt of cakes.
When I got home, she'd be already gone
("If only for your future children's sakes!")
the hairnet and the overalls to don,
to start the night shift, down at Bettabakes.
The belt would grind and drone (it never stopped),
conveying cupcakes, candy caramel,
vanilla-flavored, sugared, cherry-topped,
towards Goods Outward's gaping mouth of hell.
This sluggish river she'd have gladly swapped
for Acheron or Lethe, switched the smell
of almond paste for brimstone (could she opt
for somewhere far less tedious to dwell).
And me? I got degrees, up to my ears,
steered clear of Bettabakes, at least. Became
a lawyer and a teacher, one who steers
the kayak of his soul down much the same
dull river as his mother, but my weirs
are bigger. "National", you name the game?
"American"? It's baseball. Many beers
ago, I ceased to think in terms of fame
or fortune. Work's just work, and must be borne.
From graduation to the grinning grave
it sweeps us, slowly, down a valley worn
by those conveyed before us. Each new wave
of fancy fudges sets out, feeling scorn
for docile drudges, but winds up enslaved.
Our only way is onward, just like pawns,
towards Goods Outward's yawning architrave.
As counsel for defense I saw them pass.
It mattered little if they roared, or knelt
in supplication. Since all flesh is grass,
we have no choice. We play the hand we're dealt.
And now I watch each earnest, eager class
of youngsters, see their fine illusions melt:
they merge into one nameless toiling mass,
conveyed towards oblivion by The Belt.
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