Paradise On Delivery

My boss’s brain is soaked in tequila
he sometimes almost passes out at his desk,
so they put him in charge of routing our deliveries
while he sits in a room with no windows
and uses a computer program to analyze
the most efficient order for stops,
but it has never been accurate once.

Our glorious chief executive is in his eighties,
still thinks it is the seventies,
they send him on vacations a lot,
many spent in his office
since he wouldn’t know the difference.

Most of our drivers have hungry eyes
that burn with resentment
because they lost their real jobs to the economy
then forced to work for minimum wage
behind the wheel of some van
with three hundred thousand miles on the speedometer.

It doesn’t take much to push them over the edge,
so many have to rent rooms or live in motels
just to keep from being homeless.
How they suppress their anger over life,
careful to restraint that fury
ever aware they can’t afford to lose this job.

In the vast network we call our delivery system
vacant lives manage to drop off their work
dressed in those uniform shirts,
which may be the only thing they wear
not bought at a thrift store.

Our banner of inspiration speaks our motto,
“devoted to excellent customer service”
Today another bitter wounded soul
won’t show up for work as a victim of greed,
crippled by depression and overdosing on drugs
from how we gave our patrons their money’s worth
though not worried if the help survives
since there is a waiting list seeking work.