Proletarian Homilies

The slow, despairing dirge of duty

propels me along on this

blazing, Sunday morning.

Shambling about for a cause,

while eye lids become anvils

and heart resembles a broken hearth.

The minutes countdown before the shift,

yet no nervous energy arises

in anticipation of truancy.

All that recognizably remains is

the monotony of muscle memory—

of routines automated
to the cyclical, auto da fe 

of my minute galaxy.

I listen to a song on repeat

for a clarity that refuses to arrive.

I gaze avariciously at the liberated

footsteps of the seemingly unencumbered world—

only to see the hidden shackles

outlined beneath their garments.

Is it momentary solidarity that temporarily buoys,

Or the clock signifying commencement?