Applesmack

She works twelve hours in the shadow of the Apple
Perhaps the iPhone you play with was made by her
Young hands are calloused and her body is weary
Bright fluorescent lights and constant surveillance
Constitute the environment in which she must toil
She dreams of placid waters and rolling hillsides
Where flowers kiss the sky and keypads are skipping stones
Her reality is one of a cog; a flesh and blood cyborg
Anxious, yearning faces long to fill her worn, secondhand shoes
She is one of the faceless, the replaceable, the expendable
Billions of dollars are shamelessly showered upon her owners
Crumbs of sustenance are gathered by the constructing exploited
Supine supplicants lust wantonly for the next innovation
Fingering inane drivel upon a surface once damp with tears
She works twelve hours in the shadow of the Apple
The seeds of which fall upon a floor walked by the forlorn
Press ear to your iPhone…and listen for the atone
She, or you, will never hear