THE STAFF OF THE STAFF

Take the lowest castes of backbreakees.
You know, the mega-indigent on Haitian crutches
those reposed in a Nicaraguan wheelchair
or planchados in an Isthmus Guerney.
Even the lowest castes have staff.
Like the illegals on twelve speeds
kamikazi-ing soggy take-out or those
vulture-ing the Home Depot for a day's.
Through remittals, they pay their staff.
Those who make a robust glut of sewage.
A tin mansion, neighborhood wash closet
municipal running water only once a day.
Are serviced by the staff of the staff.
And the staff, they've power of singular splinters.
The thrust of their poverty, our pinche unhaving
is but episodic and transient, una edad de hielo.
But what of the bosses and the lunch whistles?
Are they not run just to be run, like guinea pigs.
Using this algorithm, then, who gets out alive?
Does all staff have staff, or is there a caste
of rabid supervisors with maroon vests but no
visible nametag, no identifiable ID lanyard.
Who does Yahweh call when she is poisoned with sushi?
Does she mask her voice so she sounds sick?
Or does she have the sick days to spare?