by the time i get to indonesia

her delicate, thread-thin fingers

clutch the sole.  in one fluid, robotic
motion, she attaches part to whole.

the sweat slithers down her sunken cheeks,

like water creeping over a flame

dribbling onto her shoulders

dribbling down the rest of her frame.

there she sits, as the sun starts to fade,

staring at the tennis shoe

her hands have just made.

the place where she’s from

a huge jakarta slum

is eternally cheerless

and reliably glum.

she’s only thirteen, vital and green

should be out with her girlfriends

or with a boy young and lean.

but she does not know

leisure, wealth, or glee.

there are no caring smiles.

there are no helping hands.

there is not a happy family.

there she sits, for the whole sweatshop to see,

glaring at the wall, in deepest misery.

she winces in pain, yelps in distress,

when her tools miss their mark

and make a big bloody mess.

the overseer darts by

like a fierce leopard prowling

he yells “work much harder”

all the while she is scowling.

for eleven hours a day,

nine cents an hour

her young life is sacrificed

to serve the demons in power.