This poem might be about capitalism
A dog waiting for his master outside the bakery,
Has a kind, patient expression on his face.
But I can see how every moment alone hurts him,
The rigid anxiety, the taut expectation.
Sometimes I think we too are dogs,
Waiting for something,
But unlike the dog who has memorized the face and scent of the Beloved Master,
We can’t begin to guess what we are waiting for.
We count the days of hardship, and barely dream of an unleashed life.
Is the leash even real?
Will we ever know, when we’ve never really tried to dash against it?
Why am I sitting here?
Am I free to go and find the joy that left me?
Where is my puppy playfulness?
When did I become so well trained?