I walk to the door of the workroom
Four steps up the dusty stairs
To the same door I face every day
I reach for the handle --
And I stop. I hesitate.
Because who would want to work
In a dirty, crowded factory
Filthy bare feet scraping the filthy floor
Along with the feet of filthy rats
And hopeless children, the same as me
The light long gone from their eyes.
Who would want to work
With the unforgiving machines of a cotton mill
Working cotton through them
And sometimes unlucky fingers as well
Every day, for fifteen hours
Until your muscles ache, your back is hunched
But you must keep going
Unless you would like to be whipped until you swim in blood.
Who would want to work
In another terrible cotton mill
For so long that your back breaks
Your hands are cut
Your feet scrape
And without any breaks or freedoms
Like looking out a window.
And all of this hardship
For only twenty cents a day.
But I have no choice.
I have walked into this trap
To feed myself and my family.
So I take a breath
And take the dreaded handle
With my rough, blistered hands
And I twist the knob and open the door, and finally walk inside.
Points: 0
Reviews: 311
Donate