they say the job is
soul-crushing.
but the soul
was already soft
before they even clocked in.
it’s not the job,
not the ringing phones,
not the spreadsheets,
not the plastic chairs
or the emails
that pile like snow in july.
it’s the people you
smile at and don’t trust,
it’s the supervisor with
a laminated smile
and a clipboard of nothing.
it’s the half hour lunches that feel
like gulps of air
before another drowning.
but let me tell you—
my old man mopped floors
in the summer heat
with blisters on his hands
and a broken back
he didn’t ask if the job
was fulfilling.
he was just happy
the hunger was losing
that day.
he didn’t need
a ping-pong table
or a mission statement.
today?
people want
work to be holy.
they want meaning
from a machine
built for survival.
don’t call the job
a shit hole
if the only thing you bring to it
is your fat ass
the job’s not the coffin.
the lie is the epitaph
you wrote before
you even
got
there.
