Quitting Time

(The final poem for NaPoWriMo 2014 was inspired to write a poem on calling it a day. I wondered if, when, how one actually can do that anymore.)

A bellow through a conch shell,
the blowing of the factory whistle,
the ringing of a bell --
once signified an end of work, a time for home, a time for play.

The warming seas have eroded lands where conch shells once held such a role.
The factories have closed,
and while the school bells still ring, the meaning of the sound has diminished
as working parents tell their kids to stay behind
for after school.

With the end of the assembly line came the start of 24/7.
The work can start anytime, and end anytime.
Security is unassured,
even as we think we live more freely.
We work long into the night on devices of our choice,
marveling at the ease of Internet
while our family lives erode.
We fall asleep on sofas, or during films,
with our laptops in our laps, and our smartphones whispering into our ears.
Without the old bellow, it seems that quitting time is no more.