by Lee Bains III
I remember hearing one time
that Andy Warhol described heaven
as a little isolation booth
where you could watch cable TV —
any show you wanted —
with a little slot that would produce
whatever you wanted to eat.
Whatever you want.
To silently. Wordlessly. Consume.
I have scored the one parking spot under the shade-tree.
I am sodden with sweat.
My isolation chamber is broken, on account of the windows
I had to roll down,
but I do gnaw on the value platter
and pantingly watch the little screen
that I perch on the dash.
It is a film by Adam Curtis
about the isolation of our individualist age.
The Century of the Self.
Weeks later, I am dog-tired,
and labor-whipped. I dug a ditch all morning,
dropped my shovel before noon,
ran to get the muchachos some tile,
nearly ran out of fuel in traffic,
no time for lunch,
got back to my ditch
and disappeared into it
by 6:00.
Now, I am fluttering, flickering,
able to think of nothing but a value platter
and my booth of solitude.
On the horizon, a crowd of red shirts and visors
envelops the blind disinterested building,
that faint, distant cackle of the megaphone,
picket signs, yellow and white and red, hoisted up
FIGHT FOR 15
LIVING WAGE NOW
WE ARE WORTH MORE
I approach the turn-in to the drive-thru,
ease off the gas,
lower the window,
honk the horn,
raise my fist,
drive on by.
Not on our watch.
We are worth more.
Reprinted from Work Lunch Poems, by Lee Bains III, copyright 2026. Used with permission of the publisher, Hub City Press. All rights reserved.
Photo by Zach Wolfe
