The alarm shrills you awake and you scream.
Please. No. Not again.
You go to work and swallow your pride.
It goes down hard and tastes like acid.
The paycheck comes around and you cry.
I'm so ashamed. I'm so ashamed.
You say "Let's eat at The Beacon Hill Bistro".
She says "How about McDonald's?"
And you burn with frustration.
This happens over and over and over again for fifty years.
You are 72, working part time as a supermarket bagger to supplement Social Security.
Young co-workers laugh at you and you drink secretly in despair.
Your mind cannot comprehend your reality.
You hear the dirt smother the coffin lid and you think
"What a waste."
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