poem of the day 11.12.13

helpless

she says can you help me

but i’m not so sure i can or want to

because she’s in here every day

same gray hooded sweatshirt

takes up the same computer

and spends the morning filling out

application after application

she can’t use a computer too well

she gets the applications all wrong

and has to do the simplest things all over again

some days i feel bad for her

she has to be in her sixties

she should be thinking about retirement

she should already be retired

instead of applying at burger king and key food

but america keeps taking retirement from people

like they’re taking taxes for the right to die in peace

america keeps spitting people out

just to spit them out again

like this is some kind of  joke

only most days i don’t feel bad for her

because this endless economic slog isn’t my fault

because i’ve been unemployed a number of times

and have always managed to bounce back

without anyone’s help

typically i feel burdened by her presence

and the defeat that seems to emanate

from every pore in her body

afraid to let my fingers touch her keyboard

because i worry that i might one day

become inflicted with the same stench

of aging and dread that she has

my old and useless self

applying for jobs at chain hardware stores

or a subway sandwich shop

and to be honest i can’t hide my contempt

when she calls me to come over

to help her plug in her hired and fired dates

on jobs that are older than me

only she has to be gracious because

i’m decades younger and have a professional job

the answers to the questions she’s asking

the gateway to her self-improvement and self-worth

and when she tells me that she only has

a printed copy of her resume

instead of one on a flash drive or even a floppy disk

i want to hit the roof

because she’s wasted a good portion of my morning

my coffee time

my social networking time

my newspaper time

my pension collecting hours

only she puts her head in her hands

and starts to cry right there in front of everyone

quiet yet ceaseless

while i lord over her with my keys in my hand

a sample flash drive between my thumb and forefinger

like a switchblade

as stock still as a mannequin

counting the seconds between her tears

waiting ever so patiently

for my empathy to rise like the sun

for the two of us to begin this morning

anew.