UNDER THE GROUND

"Renters are fifty percent more likely than homeowners
to be buried alive."
I did not read that
on a poster this morning
while riding on the train
– though I thought I did.
I think I need new glasses.
I think I need more sleep.
I think I have to better prepare
for the morning commute
which takes me unawares
even after all these weeks.

Man was not meant to work
from nine to five
– or work at all.
The rats are scurrying on the tracks,
finding scraps of the breakfasts
we worker drones leave behind.
I am now a worker drone
but
I am NOT a worker drone.

How did I get to this place?
What made me become
this thing I am so wholly
unprepared to be?
When did my need to feed myself
become so strong
that I would don this tie and belt
and transform myself
into this creature
I can barely see in the filthy dark window
between stations?

Why am I asking myself these questions
and am I asking them aloud?
And finally,
where will I go
at Happy Hour
to steel myself
for the long voyage home
and the sad night ahead
so I’m ready to do it again
on Monday?

This damning morning,
I have no answers,
as I hurtle toward my destination
barely alive
and under the ground.