I was working hard,
but it was not in service.
There was no higher goal or aspiration.
The wet blanket of authority
had dampened my dreams.
My effectiveness was cut off.
Cast aside.

I was working hard,
but it was not in service.
Like a broken down streetcar
empty of passengers.
I traveled with little purpose.
Traveling only to find repair.

I worked with futility.
I worked with despair.
I worked until the pain had deepened.

My mind was left sweeling with resentments.
Not even my good attitude would please you.
The motions continued on.

Lydia Workman