We were young sharks, boxcutters at our hips,

we worked overtime shifts, took ten-minute

nicotine breaks, quick hits, joked about buying

 

a guillotine for the boss as a Christmas present.

That winter was the worst for us, orders piling up,

a non-zero amount of blood allowed in the packages—

 

we all joked about dying young, DUIs among us

like a bouquet of orchids. Pablo would be in prison

in a year’s time. Most of us will have quit by then.

 

Back then, we were content to clock out and in,

rhythm and myth of what is called unskilled labor,

golden hours spent talking who else could do

 

what we’re doing, wondering if robots would take this

job too, not that we wanted to keep it, but we all had

rent to pay—some days, it didn’t feel like a bad gig.

 

I dreamed of sabotage (grabbing the PA, shouting

stop work now) but that was selfish;

I couldn’t keep myself from wanting a war

 

whenever the cause was just. I knew I had to leave

when I emerged from a sixty-hour week, saw all

the people outside, and thought, civilians.