The cleaning lady wipes the finger smudges
from egress-only push-bars. All the workers
assume she's getting paid; if HR fudges
the numbers now and then, the cheats & shirkers
upstairs don't seem to care. They only notice
commercials, constantly rebranding us
per focus-group replies: I drive a Lotus,
demand a Happy Meal for men, discuss
recession-beating Bugaboos online
with other single moms while musing, "Is
it time?" and later, "Is it still time?" They sign
the paperwork to keep us straight, then quiz
us both about our blood. For a limited time,
the beef hormones in fries are more humane.
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