out of work


At the end of the week

three resumes, two interviews and a call later, it’s

not so hard to call the evening off, stretch out

catlike in a lazy chair with a beer

and shrug off the week’s worries

Newspapers tell me I’m not alone

half the people I know are without work or soon

to lose their paychecks, but still

get a twinge in my fingers when I smell old pages

in a used bookstore, that fragile paper

I know how to fix–get an itch

to do something

even though I’m supposed to be this lazy, represent a

generation entitled by middle-class baby-boomers and their

retirement funds

Can’t help feeling I ought

to be moving, going West with the rest of the invasion

of young men and post-grads

going somewhere more exciting than

cover letters and inkstained fingers

Let me show

my best and I promise I won’t

be like them, won’t take

anything for granted

Some days

someday seems a long time away, and it takes

more waiting than I can spare, change

I can’t afford to give to the man on the corner because there’s another

waiting on the next block, and next month’s rent

is around the corner with no job in sight.  Some days

seems a better idea to sleep in til night, til darkness

softens edges and cuts corners

and all is forgiven.