Customer Service

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 01, 2020

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 01, 2020




Plastered smiles on our faces

melt when no one's looking.

"Have a great day,"

"How can I help you?"

"Sorry, let me fix that." 

We speak with the same voice,

not our own.


"The customer is always right,"

we know it's a lie, they never are,

Yet we keep apologizing, 

repaying abuse with politeness. 

We want to swear and scream,

shake and strike and be mean back,

But we can't we're just unfeeling robots.


Living paycheck to paycheck,

make each penny count. 

Somehow we can't ever have enough hours. 

On the Treadmeill to Nowhere,

we grind away our youth and our lives,

too poor and stressed and tired to be happy,

Each day seems the same.


They say, "get a REAL job," 

as if the pain in our bones,

And the ache in our muscles

isn't real enough.

We work the stores and resurants

all over the World,

Yet, somehow our jobs aren't "real"?


Could the World really function

if we all got "real jobs"

And left serving those with "real jobs" behind?

How would they get their frappes

at four in the morning

if all the despised who serve them

Only worked nine-to-five?


At the end of our shifts,

we peel off the fake smiles, along with the grimy work clothes. 

Robots become humans,

who now can have feelings,

And speak with a voice of their own.

© Copyright 2020 Drige. All rights reserved.

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