The Poor Man’s Reckoning

At the gasoline pump,
the prices climb again,
and I feed the machine my wages
one dollar at a time,
watching another week of work
disappear into a tank
that gets me back to the job
that barely fucking pays for it.

On the TV,
some politicians in Washington
talk about sacrifice
as if they understand what that word means.

Sacrifice.

Hell, that word is easy to say
when you're asking somebody else
to go without.

Parents stretch a paycheck
until payday comes around again.
An elderly people look at their prescriptions
and decides which one
can wait another day.
A worker clocks another twelve-hour shift
because the bills keep coming
whether his body is tired or not.

Then they tell us
the economy is recovering.

For whom?

For the worker standing at the pump,
for the elderly choosing which prescription
can wait another day,
for parents trying to stretch a paycheck
until the next one comes?

Meanwhile, the powerful grow comfortable,
their fortunes rising behind fake promises,
their lives cushioned by money
earned from the labor of the people
who have learned to live on less.

I have worked for every dollar they took,
watched my paycheck shrink before it reached the bank,
watched the price of gasoline climb,
watched the grocery bill jump fifty dollars
for the same damn food, I bought last week.
Then some politician tells me things are getting better,
and I damn near laugh.

Let the polished men talk.
Let them tell us to be patient,
to tighten our belts,
to wait another year,
another election,
another promise.

We have waited long enough.

People are tired of choosing
which bill gets paid first.
Tired of watching wages disappear
while somebody else gets richer.
Tired of being told to be grateful
for scraps from tables
we helped build.

One day that anger is going to spill out
and when it does,
they'll finally hear
what working people have been saying
all along.

"WE ARE TIRED!"