‘Work’
I assault the world
with my whining,
with my ‘work’,
as though
that meant something,
as if
I were
more than a loser
rotting in a rented room.
People are dying
in Haiti,
I’m told.
Some of them
children.
I throw
ten bucks
at the issue,
tell it
to go away,
so I can go back
to whining
about the fact that
you left me
again.
Alone on
a Friday night.
Nothing else for me
but the work.
