The Pain of Working

I wrote this at my cashier job at a grocery store.

There must be something better
than harsh fluorescent lighting
and the churning hum of the soda machines.
Better than the beeping of the incorrect scans
or the pasty, cheerful goodbyes.
Better than waiting to take a break
and clocking in and out
like a slave.
Like you are a puppet held up by
someone else's hand
being told to say
"is plastic ok?"
Because plastic is easier to make
yet it pollutes the earth we live on
who are we?
living to fill someone else's pockets
if we don't recognize slavery now
nobody will.

Author's Note

Ignore the lack of punctuation. I did this poem originally at work, so I only had a scrap of paper to write it on.