Dave Bonta's "Employed" is a tiny poem about work that feels hollow. The speaker has "little to do but answer / a little king," which suggests a job that mostly means responding to someone's demands, and the word "little" twice makes both the work and the master seem small. The speaker says plainly, "I do not enjoy my employment / in the service of service." That phrase loops back on itself, as if the job is serving for the sake of serving, with no real purpose behind it.
The last lines turn inward: "I see what grief we come to / in our reflections." It's not clear exactly what the speaker is looking at, but the poem seems to suggest that routine obedience wears people down, and that catching sight of ourselves makes it obvious. The mood is quiet, dry, and a little sad. The speaker doesn't shout or complain at length. They simply state the problem and let the sadness settle.