6. Labor Day

There are 47 minutes left
to the sixth day of September.
And midnight is the deadline
to have a poem typed -
good, bad or otherwise.

It's Labor Day, and I'm working an overnight shift
trading my time for money then
giving the money to
the entities that own me.
This is the economy
at work.

It's a bad trade,
but I don't see any options.

A part of me shivers a little
like, by saying that, I might
jinx it
and end up like so many others -
unemployed, losing their homes,
life turned on its head.

The other part of me
says,
SUCKER.

Today we stayed inside,
because any sort of movement
outside
seems to cost a fortune,

and I listended to the kids
laugh and fight

and remembered that
I am
fortunate.