Feet

Mules make going slow,
stubborn grip so
I'll stay shod;
must alternate sabotage~

fling into this foot the gears~
isn't steady, but still the spin
steams, halts the grease,
I get ready

to strike against the plastic
cup my rights' mouth.
They sugar tea
numb, like kisses,

blunt my wits, but will
rebel to fit a work
through the hole
in the molded, twist-open lid~

what's this!? A walk
scuffing, a slow-down, (to sip),
and then, swift,
an unseen cut.

The wires droop, once taut,
their fizzing speeches
beat. The line stops,
the worker rests. She drops feet.

Still the monopolists suck
my wits, the air, the crops.
I'd fight thought ~
the shoes are theirs.