The Modern Man

He, woke to rinse his face
to sweep dusty mirror, to lather and shave
scrubbing his skin, drying and moisturizing
the man suits up, with caffeine in his gear

Kisses her wife and daughter old 6 yesterday
he jogs, walks and paces to the subway everyday
racing against ticks and chimes of the metal tool
structures of us, capturing every single frame

He reaches the skyscraper, tall as his simulated farsight
51 st floor, Cabin B on the side left he sits
9 o’clock every morning
with cream latte starbucks on his side

spreadsheets and data
churning every single penny
out of the coffers and inside
scaling graphs for someone
Mr. X they say, anonymous to him as he is to him

The clock strikes 5 and he tip toes to fresh air
from the numbers, 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01101000 01100001 01110100 01100101 01110011.

He, is a slave of the clock
a cog in the wheel of industrial cart
he is born bathed and shaped
to scale numbers and take clients call

Poets, painters, men of colour
we break the structured wall of man
into the chaos, to seek the call
Isn’t this last living solace my friend ?
Not living in a simulation, set on us
by us all

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