Jobs

In America, to work to help others
is often to be poor:
 
changing diapers on other people’s babies,
washing dishes we leave behind
in the restaurant tub,
helping others’ grandparents down
the long hallway that leads to the bathroom.
 
The janitor puts on his uniform at 3 AM
so quietly while others in his household sleep,
his back bent from sweeping, mopping
his hands curled as he reaches for his trousers.
 
Imagine instead a reversal:
these workers on vacation
somewhere with gentle sun and smooth sand.
They fling themselves into silken waves,
eat pineapples and papayas
sculpted to look like fans,
sleep underneath billowing
white clouds of comfort.
 
And the rich man must perform for his lunch
like the unwashed child on the metro
whose hands maneuver so swiftly
along the curves and keys
of his accordion.