Monday, April 1, 2013

Size of a Fuckin' Knuckle


She walked in the office, gold ring on
her finger shining against the sun
from the window. The ring was real,
diamond the size of her fuckin' knuckle.
It was strange, never fit who she was. 

There were wars in her wrinkles; ashes
on her glasses from years of livin'
in a nicotine addiction. The PhD was
only a few steps away; she's worked years
to achieve this much in life as her history
poured from her chest and away from her lips.

Her eyes carried so much water that
plants could make a home there; spread
their roots through her veins and count
the days she's got left before her body
gives out.

I'm watchin' her mouth move, gettin' faster and faster,
and I know she's about to break down; about
to curse the ages of waitress jobs and shitty
bar tips just to feed her children and a man
that can barely look at anything other than her
ragged figure. She couldn't suck the shaft of her
Master's degree much longer, and she was crawling
her way to the final cliff before descending into
the end of a failed educational career.

I understand where you're comin' from lady; understand
that there are just some days you gotta hold
the last penny in your pocket because you don't
have much else. Short change and cut corners because
there's a bill collector around the corner waiting
for your next paycheck like a fuck-up boyfriend needing
bail money.

More often we make a bad choice that forces
us to grab at the Manna from the sky-desperate
to make it through to the next month. I look at her,
realize that we're both in the same world. We're both
just surviving on what we borrowed, living on
what the bank allows us on an overdraft. Praying, though
we know there's only the representative on the phone to
hear our sins. We're not so different. And I tell her
much like I've been told in the same way, because I'm
not in a position to help, only to inform,
"I'm sorry, but there's nothing else we can do."

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