A greasy wet rag,
Wipes 90% of this plastic smile.
A group of wincing, chirpy voices,
And begrudging grunts.
No common knowledge,
Just forced labor and angry dishes.
It hurts; my spine.
They hurt; my feet.
All for those crumbled numbers,
For those simple smiles.
The step on the crusty mat,
To create the wonderful smack.
The creak of a door, I look.
Neck cocked, a breath of relief.
Those two bundles are all I need.