Metaphor Poem : The Line

At dawn, we rise.
March single file
line by line
into two ton
steel matchboxes
to hurtle along concrete veins
the red blood cells of an industrial earth.
eyes down 
feet together
back straight
a factory line.
no chance for promotion or benefits.
and please keep your body parts inside the cubicle at all times.
Force those smiles, 
lie through your teeth,
and you might make it to retirement.
One day at a time
another step closer
to the end of the line.