sweat shop

The day was long and slow; a tortes race as one of my coworkers insists on calling it. The monotony of my factory labors that afternoon hung on me like thousands of over packed saddle bags. My back was tight and sore; forever the poor pony who hauled a cowboy one fence post too far. My hooves steel toed but not nearly as strong. My eyes impermeable and yet not far reaching. Ears literally stuffed with a plastic designed to retard one of my most important censes. Finger dexterity all but lost beneath thick leather gloves. The taste of de-galvanizing fluid had been adhered to my taste buds for over 14 hours. The smell of us all was acrid and even clung to our cars. Our weekly visits to the bank were not anticipated. Tellers always an extra foot from the counter; rarely making eye contact. A line of defeated laborers stretches well beyond the door towards the parking lot where cars jockey for position in the eternally slow drive through lane; but at least they get to sit down. The rest, we stand; and wait for the feed envelope. $247.58, every week. Just enough to keep a horse healthy. Invisible saddle always strapped on. Then the stampede heads to the watering whole. Filling the cars; then  standing in line with large rectangular boxes of vital alcohaulic fluids for ourselves. The teller again an extra step away. Then we roam on paved pastures; bleary eyed towards where ever we call home. A few hours pass. A few naps, and we all wind up at the same spot we left off at and start on a down a fence that never ends; always needs middle management mends, but on which we all depend.

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