Now he is a rippled body of ink, grit and spit,
Wrestling chunks of junk in the wired cage,
Gazing upon the world with a frenzied blankness,
Ignoring tired calls from the boss to go home.
Not that long ago he was small,
Frolicking under a sprinkler in the backyard,
Sitting on the bench as his mother fed him warm pikelets,
Wondering when his father would come home.