Poem 117

A labor of love.
Matching bills with pay stubs
Cooking box noodles in salt water
Writing on the scraps of time cards
A labor of love.
Learning the language of semi-skill
Burning the backs of my hands on lattes
Making a dime shy of fair compensation
A labor of love.
Voyeur vagabond unbound
By beige middle class side-blinds
A desk for a register, a day job at best
Blistered hands and a weightless mind,
For Poetry, a labor of love.

—ECW 
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