The Problem With the Assembly Line

You have no idea how little I care about your sprockets,
Nor how fast I can turn ‘em out on your machine.
But the whole big thing might matter just a little
If I could only see the woman smile
As she rolls her window down.
Then perhaps, I’d care, just a little.
Maybe it would help me believe 
That all of this means something.
But I can’t see past the metal
Nor the wheel that turns the days around
And squeezes out another carefully measured dollar
Into my silent bank account
Without a word, without a look, without even 
The feel of your sweaty palm 
As the money passes
From your hand
Into mine.
And so, one day soon, I’ll move on.
These places are all the same.
But you knew that.
You knew that my allegiance was temporary,
And you planned for the day when
I would leave and be replaced 
By another just the same.
Maybe next I’ll try a restaurant.
And there I’ll brew up pots of beans.
I’ll cut tomatoes, and chop up salad greens
And wrap them up in fine burritos.
And, now and then, I’ll look out, 
To see the people smile 
And listen as they 
Compliment the establishment.