The banquet had only begun.
And on this night they scheduled but one.
It was to my disdain,
And my woe, and my shame,
That a dishwasher's what I've become.
I had tied my hair back in a bun.
To the buckets of plates I did run.
I was stacked to the ceiling,
Just working, no feeling.
A longing once more for the sun.
Low wages, my stage is a sink.
It's all doing, no space left to think.
As the hours passed by,
With each splash to my eye,
My cheeks were a shade darker, pink.
My hands cracked like ice on the shore.
My body stood heavy and sore.
I kept up with the rush,
Yet no word was but hushed,
As they came and they went through the door.
Finally my shift was complete.
I had clocked out, put shoes on my feet.
My boss touched me, I turned,
He spoke soft little words,
And I hoped he respected my feat.
"Those glass plates, they were spotless indeed!
My wife really just couldn't compete.
It's a tough, scary world,
But you're a good little girl.
And one who does as she's supposed to is sweet."
YOU ARE READING
The Wall Which Cannot Break
PoetryThis is a collection of poetry that I submitted to Button Poetry's 2018 Chapbook Contest. It focuses on gender inequality, the oppression of females, and the struggle for women to break the wall built between them and men to keep them below.
