A night drive around any city will make us familiar with scenes of men/women picking plastic bottles, dusting the roads, giving a makeover to the entire landscape and sparkling it for us to use during the day. A freestyle poem through their (I/We) lens.
What is my asset?
It’s a broom and an orange-cladded reflective jacket.
When do I start my work?
As the night sets in and the demons lurk.
What is my job role?
To make the city free of garbage.
So, how do others acknowledge?
By making me remain in a state of bondage,
Because I am a hostage,
In the larger policy plottage,
What about my salary and pay?
Being on contract ensures that I remain in penury.
How’s my mode of recognition?
Well, I am given a uniform and daily ‘admonition’.
What is my key result area?
To toil and be ‘ready’ to get fired without any Honoria.
How about my appraisal?
To retain me on ‘contract’ to reduce the fiscal.
Has there been any change after neoliberalism?
Yeah, only an increase in ostracism and stigmatism.
Isn’t working at night risky?
Yes, we fall victim to rash driving by those gulping whisky.
Does anyone care?
Nay, as it’s only I/us in despair.
What can I do?
Nothing, as life has to go,
and I have to continue to do,
the job.