working class Friday | poem

poetry

you limp into the weekend

once the night shift is over

go get yourself

a drink at the pub on the corner

where raison skin workers

stand alone.

in silence share your grievances.

then the off-brand supermarket

to buy discount processed foods  

beans and instant noodles

the out-of-date, microwave curry

will do.

sat on a bus with bodies

swollen hands and aching ankles

minds tire from the weight of expectation.

you each carry a bag of medication

king size smokes, refined sugars

saturated fats and bottles of drink.

tomorrow can never come

soon enough.

*

back in your room, a lightbulb flickers

the ornery couple upstairs are fighting once again

about a sure thing bet gone wrong.

you unzip, undress from filthy clothes

worn out by the double shift,

sweatpants and a Ziggy Stardust t-shirt

pulled from a heap in the corner.

you would never pay for ice

pour a tall glass of the stiff stuff.

your mother calls to see if you have eaten.

drink number two, now the microwave

with its blown-up beans and custard stains.

four minutes feels too long

to wait

but you wait.

the plastic almost scolds you

as bad as the line boss who took the time

to remind you

of your toilet break allocations.

a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh

drink later.

time to write the poetry.