In fact theirs will be worse:
the climate will sweep away their bodies
like wind sweeps up the sage brush
but still they angle for jobs that will kill them.
The lettuce fields, Quick Stops,
the meat packers and
old secretaries and truckers with bad backs
and huge co-pays
who cannot retire,
and again
railroad workers are told,
Sorry, no sick leave!
Those are the rules.
And so they all wait for another
planet to roll by
or maybe Heaven.
All my life, the world makes
more and more of those
who sleep in bunks, who will never own,
whose lives must fit beneath a tarp.
Not enough to go around.
Not enough baby formula.
Not enough insulin.
Not enough warm coats.
Not enough schools without broken windows.
Not enough. Not enough.
Just little fixes that don’t fix.
A high-interest loan, food stamps,
and reminders to say
thank you, Pfizer,
thank you, Elon
thank you for not taking everything,
for leaving the cheap couch
from China, this hand gun,
the crystal meth,
this last frozen pizza.
Thank you for sharing the air.
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