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Abstract

ts money.</p><p id="ec8a">You wipe old folks’ asses for minimum wage. You’ve contracted covid three times now and your doctor says you are at risk of heart failure.</p><p id="81b4">But you’ve got kids to feed, kids who can’t wait to move out of the house and forget about you.</p><p id="e89d">I have seen the world’s cruelty with my own eyes. I know its way of betrayal well.</p><p id="4434">So I have no platitudes for you.</p><p id="8468">I want to tell you to take care of yourself, to eat better, take a walk, exercise, but I don’t want to add insult to injury and I know it won’t help you.</p><p id="d518">I have no money to offer you, and I am not a babysitter.</p><p id="1f96">And so I feel awkward and helpless, as I see you dying over there, while you wait in front of the second prize dark red abstract art massacre to recycle your sharps container of used insulin needles so I can swap you a new container to keep these torture wheels grinding and turning.</p><p id="6997">And even though this is just a job, and I am just another cog in this great brutal machine of far more losers than winners, I cannot help but feel sad for you as I wait to catch the evening train home.</p><p id="83f6"><b>© Carlo Zeno 2022</b></p><p id="9889">________________</p><p id="0f13">Thanks for reading, and thank

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s as always to <a href="undefined">Franco Amati</a> for providing this space. You can support <a href="https://ko-fi.com/carlozeno7575">here</a>, and you can read more poems below. 🙏</p><div id="e4ec" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/lucrezias-revolt-7d25620b97a"> <div> <div> <h2>Lucrezia’s Revolt</h2> <div><h3>Poem on seizing power</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*8sr9HaH92IbskBMHnh49WQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="abb7" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/when-the-night-comes-flooding-in-b76893a61c83"> <div> <div> <h2>When The Night Comes Flooding In</h2> <div><h3>Poem on surrendering</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*53ggH0n0HBPzcqihIodqNw.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

A Loss For Words

The way of failure

Thirty-five, heart problems, you attacked your stress with chocolate, and it paid you back with diabetes.

I was behind the counter helping a customer, but I could already see you were more haggard than when I saw you last month.

Behind you was the runner up of the high school art competition, an abstract painting with lots of red splotches — a massacre.

You barked at your kids to stop eating junk food, but it was you who stocked the pantry with sugar, and they all saw you stuffing yourself late at night when you thought they were sleeping.

Your apartment was too small to keep your secrets from three children.

You were developing an edge to you, leaking an aggression you swore wasn’t you, reminding you of your own mother you no longer spoke to.

There were no answers for your desperate condition.

You were just another single mother losing the financial battle with life.

Dignity costs money.

You wipe old folks’ asses for minimum wage. You’ve contracted covid three times now and your doctor says you are at risk of heart failure.

But you’ve got kids to feed, kids who can’t wait to move out of the house and forget about you.

I have seen the world’s cruelty with my own eyes. I know its way of betrayal well.

So I have no platitudes for you.

I want to tell you to take care of yourself, to eat better, take a walk, exercise, but I don’t want to add insult to injury and I know it won’t help you.

I have no money to offer you, and I am not a babysitter.

And so I feel awkward and helpless, as I see you dying over there, while you wait in front of the second prize dark red abstract art massacre to recycle your sharps container of used insulin needles so I can swap you a new container to keep these torture wheels grinding and turning.

And even though this is just a job, and I am just another cog in this great brutal machine of far more losers than winners, I cannot help but feel sad for you as I wait to catch the evening train home.

________________

Thanks for reading, and thanks as always to Franco Amati for providing this space. You can support here, and you can read more poems below. 🙏