“Who do you work for?!”
the man in black shouts at the hapless flunkie
on my television screen
hoping that in the end of his work Justice is done.
He might be shouting at me too.
I have no evil masters, but sometimes it gets me to wondering
Who do I work for.
Do I work simply for survival’s sake, that bacon be in the fridge
and bread in the pantry?
Do I work for my own glory,
that my name become legend,
that my works stand as a monument
that my memory exceeds my own reach?
Or do I work for a greater master?
Do I work for a master wants me to prosper,
not meaning basking in riches
but in the knowledge that my work means something,
if only to one person who is three?
Do I work for this kind master who demands not slavery
but a willing, broken heart?
I hope I do, and because of that
I know I do.