Enslavement in The Writer

I, the lone adult, lop off strawberry heads,

give them over to eager hands

whose feet march the tiled floors like a roving army.

I, the kitchen guard enslaved to endless snack orders-

or else chained to the beast in the basement,

that creaking weary warrior sputtering out half dry clothes,

threatening to take leave of this earthly place.

My cotton-stuffed brain remembers a time when,

I was necessary for more than

wiping faces, asses, refereeing arguments that start and end with 'because'.

Dimly, but still there-

is someone who felt worthy of time,

who drank coffee when it was hot

instead of finding it filmed over,

in the microwave no less!

My books, like so much refuse of a life leftover

lay dormant in another worlds room.

I, the mouse nibbling at cardboard corner,

desperate to gain access.

Constantly scared away by a loud noise.