While coal miners collect dust

Sometimes I walk my pompous walk, through the streets of the metropolis, about the upper class stores like say Walmart, and I often stop and ponder and and stroke my chin and look up, standing next to stock steel pots. And I think of the machinery in the factories and the scientists inputting data into computer screens exacting the accurate mechanics to make sure the bottom fits the lid, to make sure the rim curls out just a bit to secure the locking mechanism of a pressure cooker. Or, how about non-stick pans. What great experiments must've lead to that great invention, but it still can't handle metal utensils? It only works with plastic. If you scratch it it scars. It's a craft not yet perfected. No, you've got to be careful not to stick a fork in it. It's a concept cooked but not well-done like the omelets that will make up most of its surface content. Every real man knows that part of the etiquette. And I stop and think as I walk what collective twats we've become. Collecting birthday blowers while coal miners collect dust. Real dirt, unlike suburban life so safe and secure. There's boredom and comfort and they're never mutually exclusive. There's boredom and eggshell drywall versus hot, pitch black, dull discomfort. A home and a hole are hell in different colors. We have cars and cul-de-sacs with no outs. They have carts and attempt to tunnel their way out. And perhaps more purpose depending on what our work is. The point is, they're equally trivial. But I wonder if they think of us like them we do. They in their crumbling bunkers, their makeshift shelters, us in our cubicles with Rubik's cubes, the surface dwellers.

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