The Engineers

We toil down here in the pit
of the spaceship, a dozen men
and women with fancy sounding
engineering degrees who are no more
than inter-galactic lackeys,
all day and night in a windowless,
fake-aired cocoon, tweaking
and tending, testing and dosing
on uppers and downers,
ensuring this vessel’s safe route
through space, so those in the
above-decks can spend their time
admiring their uniformed selves
in mirrors, or enjoying the splendors
of the hologram den, or lolling
high and mighty in the navigator’s
chair and pretending they’re
the ones who actually make
this rocket move.

Now and then, some under-worked
over-paid space jockey will pass
me in the corridor, notice my stained
light blue overalls, and sneer something
like, “Hiya grease monkey” and
walk quickly by before I get a chance
to present him with the middle finger
of my hyper-educated right hand.
Never mind, that hand is needed
for more tweaking and tending,
testing and dosing on those uppers
and downers. Ah, the engine room,
where a superior being can put to
use all that he knows, while taking time
out to work on his inferiority complex.