Daily Grind

The boss called last night, said we’d be short-staffed again,
would I please come in? As if I have a choice.
So I’m up early again like every other morning:
I’m called in every day I have off. They want to wear me out,
they want me to quit. Not gonna happen.
I’ve been there ten whole years,
longer than the big cheese himself. A few changes
in his “personnel preferences” won’t get rid of me.
It’s time to start another sixty hour week.

My wife sleeps on—soundly—without a care.
With no career and no burdens of any kind to buckle her down
except the “oh so taxing, full-time job of raising a toddler!”
life is a ride at the carnival for her.
I almost want to wake her, make her share in my load,
but I ignore the urge. Too much effort.
Instead, I fumble through the dark room
in my search for clothes and stumble over Maggie’s doll
tossed carelessly on the floor. She begged for that doll.
Wouldn’t give me a minute’s rest ever since
her friend got one. I kick the doll to the side—
it hits the wall and its hard plastic purse snaps off.
Nothing I do is appreciated.