Free will in the late capitalist era
The long slow mills have no choice, the freeway has no choice.
The empty fields have no choice, when the snow falls they agree
to turn white and later muddy, when the sun burns they parch
and crack, learn to be tough. What choice do I have, wakened
at dawn, bleary and empty, except to stand up and totter on,
slowly gather the pieces of myself, the day ahead ordinary
or not, who will arrive and who depart, on the radio a new
calamity far away. Eat something, drink something, pull on
my shoes and coat and walk through the backyard of the brick
house whose owners moved out months ago, the knobby grass
soggy from the last rains, smelly gifts from the neighbors’ dogs
hiding in the hollows. I have no choice and I’m one of the lucky
ones, one of the last ones, who else will have such an easy
sweet time of it, tucked into this town like a child into bed,
free to leave any time I can afford it. What else can I do
but slide my card in the slot, pull open the door, trudge
up the stairs to the desk where the whole day is waiting?
