measuring…

the paint’s
worn off
where your fingers
carefully
calculated
what would be needed
to complete
the job
but
how many hours
were counted
as you made it
take shuffling steps
in and out
of its case
as you
sat
waiting
for
the union bosses
to
punch your card
granting
you
right of passage
to
the job site
and
to
moments of hope
hope
for a better life
for
those you love
better
than
yours
you
the poor
and
unwanted
immigrant seed
cast upon
this nation’s
desert sands
and
told
to grow
without water

5 thoughts on “measuring…

  1. Heartless. Not your words but the system. My friend I wrote the poem for last week died. They haven’t buried her waiting for her sister to come from Jamaica. 70 something year old woman, coming to pay her last respect to her sister was denied a visa.

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