Bitching about how the sun is getting in and I can't see my      paper due to the blinding light
And I ask myself, 'Will this paper buy me tacos?'
I know I shouldn't be standing in the cold
I have no muscles
I push papers and pens and feed shredders
And say I have a conscience
Throwing politicking bombs in the laps of moms and their      babies
And say, 'I love myself too much to do it'

Still everywhere I hear, 'Fuck the poor'
'Fuck the weak' 'Not everyone's supposed to have it good      in this world'
But what have I done but be born in America
Have gullible parents and a pretty face
And have to listen to the screaming seconds of this      politicking bomb every day.

Jason Van Blaricom writes from Texas. His work has also appeared in Grain, Spindrift, Struggle, Homestead Review, and L'intrigue.