The Making of Gold
“百 忍 成 金”

The contortionist grits her teeth
Even as cool fire singes her spine
For she, like the ancient Chinese, knows
The value of pain
After a hundred endurances comes gold

You too hunker down to work every day
For that month-end pot of gold

Endurance must come in a hundred forms
For a hundred times your parents have reminded you
With a glint in their Chinese eyes
Their hope that you, their future, are paved with gold

So you bear with it.
Bear with the ill-fitting suit and three-inch heels
The same grind each same day, the same
Garden-variety evils of each workplace
Grinned and bore it
The day your co-worker was sacked
Without good reason the same way you
Bear with the broken measure that weighs
Gritty hard work as much as fortune’s whims

And perhaps after the alchemists in the office have
For the hundredth time
Removed your quirks with acid
Ranked and filed you among their human resources    
Alloyed your self to Corporation Inc
You will finally fit into the corporate mould
Sized down to shape for the cubicle

And the day comes when you realise
You have, yes indeed, become gold
Forever hard, dead and cold