day o

second week in, on my thousandth
job. Another go as the lowest paid,
most educated employee. Never studied
the stuff that makes bucks, thought it was
more noble to follow passion. Noble in the rain
after midnight, waiting on a bus. Same bus,
same route, as when I first went off on this
righteous path, fifteen years ago. The rain
still feels wet.

I'll last a few months, cause a scene
and give the others something to gab
about for a bit. My gift.

'Til then I tell myself that good stuff:

earn enough dough to save for a car,
pick up extra hours, work side jobs,
get ahead

but

beer ain't buying itself
and the schlub that can hack this shit
sober, don't share no name with me.

Too old to sanctify my peaceable kingdom
on the grimace from having more tales,
more women, and having been to more places
then the man who signs the check. My knees
are too bad to see it myself.

I still sneak a smile
that I have to believe
can't be bought.

I write poetry in the hours
before bed, after a long day
at work, and noble don't hold
up these days anyhow, but I can
imagine if the bills were paid
easier, then sleep would follow
right behind it.