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The Service Contract
(with apologies to William Butler Yeats)
by Andrew Sacks

Turning and turning in the washer on fire,
The housewife cannot hear the massacre.
Threads fall apart; the stitches will not hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the wardrobe.
The bucket of Tide is tossed, and everywhere
The ceremony of sanitation is drowned;
The blouses suffer convection, while the worsteds
Are full of heated up intensity.

Surely some repairman is at hand;
Surely the Service Contract is at hand.
The Service Contract! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Expiritus Monday
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the offices of the city
A shape with pudgy body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow pencil, while all about him
Reel shadows of indignant corporate crows.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty-four months of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a coverage lapse,
And what rough service worker, his hour come round at last,
Slumbers in suburbia with a snore?