for a woman in pink shorts

We, my sister, are only slaves.  
We’ve been whipped into shape,
our backs ripped open,  
our hope held for ransom,  
our determination starved into submission,  
our futures sacrificed to the comfort of the masters.  
 
We spent our youth chained to a cash register  
or with shovel in hand  
begging for a ten cent raise,  
our potential traded for a little respite --  
a few minutes more with a lover in the cool sheets,  
the air conditioner running full blast  
and the sun beating on the trailer roof  
heating things up,  
making the weeds grow.  
 
At some point in a man’s life you’re all of heaven,  
goddesses with grey showing at the roots,  
soft dimpled thighs,  
delicious freckled chests showing a hint of pale cleavage.  
Lines are etched in your face,  
the price of a lovely tan back in the day.  
Or of a pack a day.  
 
She hides her belly under a big tee shirt.  
She knows that life is wound tight  
as an old slapstick comedy --  
run-away trains  
and flickering acrobatics in grey scale.  
Player pianos.  
Deadpan humor.  
 
Man against the machine.  
 
I watched you  
buy that lottery ticket,  
smiling at the cashier,  
letting him flirt a little,  
and thought how lovely you are.  
 
I wrote this poem for you.