All my life, the numbers who suffer grow

Nor can the little ones escape.

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.