In celebration of todayâs Poetry Day, weâre sharing The Melancholic Present by roibeĂĄrd from the historic town of Corydon, IN, courtesy of Blue Collar Review.
iâll be damned
if i know where the time went.
45 years, & this blue collar
is worn & faded beyond bronzing,
will leave a tattooed torc
bruise-like around my neck.
All those years of concrete,
dust & fumes noise & heat & cold,
burning feet & bouts of sciatica,
tetanus shots & stitches,
scatological humor,
pedestrian IQs & sullen attitudes,
sleep deprivation & my weekend warrior
head-butting his battle axe,
chasing a broom
in his twilight years
after settling for any grubby job
tossed his desperate way.
(i missed the golden handcuffs,
but hope enough of me is left
to supplement retirement
With a few odd jobs)
Scrubbing the bossâ toilet
itâs a porcelain mausoleum
to dialectical materialism.
i guess thereâs dignity in work
as long as you understand
what the lord giveth
the stockmarket may taketh away,
& a cost-of-living adjustment
is a figment of your imagination
Leave it to a strong back & a weak mind
thinking with the calluses on my hands â
itâs pull all the leprechauns to death,
& thereâs no solace in knowing
iâm not the only one who failed to save
for a future they didnât expect to see.
Salt of the earth.
Salt in the wound.
Because thereâs no bandaid large enough
to cover Planet Proletariat.
roibeĂĄrd
Corydon, IN
Blue Collar Review
Journal of Progressive Working Class Literature
Source: Vacpusa.org
