I wrote this after I hadn’t eaten much at all for a few days straight
while going to work and waiting for the pay day to come.
Empty right now,
walked down the 7-Eleven
to use my last coin.
Got myself a soggy piece,
something of a rice bread
for O point fife-nine,
Ate it right there, in front of the cashier
she didn’t even have the time
–to print the receipt,
The headlines at the newspaper stall,
says I’m about to die from the sudden rise
in food prices.
They’re raising taxes.
In the face of this inevitable crisis,
I try my best to duck the grand scale
economic move without design.
The future is a bright searchlight.
I feel like Ray Charles in mind,
feeling too weak,
got work to finish,
and the work just won’t finish itself.
As I walk on the streets I see hope,
And I say,
a humble me bumble be
what should one
pay day hearsay
come next month or when you may,
for then my diesels
will forget the weasels
and my easel will be
standing, so tall,
as I roll on.