In Which I Am Chastened By A Scene At A Fast Food Joint

How old is he, the man we saw at noon,

A whisk broom and a dustpan in his hands,

A cannula connecting his nose to

A backpack tank of oxygen? He stands

Just slightly stooped, a hard-working rebuke

To how we haven't cared well for those folk

Who've toiled their lives away, then by some fluke

Of fate that's really more a bitter joke,

Though well-advanced in years, still find they're stuck

With no recourse but to take on such work

In fast-food clean-up, just to make the buck

Or two he needs to stay alive. The smirk

His supervisor gave us while this wage

Slave shuffled past still calls up rage.