The clock is ticking.
The workload is piling up,
and the elderly man who covers me on my break
looks at my area,
like it’s a hammer
waiting to crack his own back.

He nods his head with an accepting smile
and says "ya es lunche mi cesarin,”
it's lunchtime big Ceas.
But how can I leave this man with so much work?
How can I work up an appetite
knowing this situation is wrong?

So, I say “déjeme limpiar aqui de volada
para que no se le aga tanto”
let me clean this up real quick,
so it won't be so much.

He looks at me and grabs his back,
and says “hijo, eres buena persona”
son, you are a good person.

Five minutes later I go on break.
My supervisor is watching.
His slave tongue is salivating,
and my first warning
is waiting to be given to me
in a colonial language
I will always refuse to speak,
or even understand.

And here I am, getting in trouble for being a man,
a human being,
a heartbeat pounding in a corporate place
where sentimientos are erased
where humanity is ripped from your spirit
with just one swipe of a timecard,
and one wink of a laughing clock's
wicked eye.

In these moments,
the souls of our people die.
Why?

Because our work is slavery’s modern face
we are the hammer
that breaks our own people’s stained,
and stigmatized backs.

We have become the vibrations of railroad tracks,
the quota that must be met
the food of a money system,
that is spit, chewed, then thrown away.

Today
we became the forbidden tears
that started in the break room,
and ended
in the history
of forever.