Out of Work

in

The cruelest part of this Depression
is not the lack of hope,
but the possession.
***
A year without a job
provides the clue
why my young son pretends at “interviews.”
* * *
Oh to have the options of a kid:
to build a reputation
or a pyramid.
* * *
Zealots are always in a bind:
take Tantalus, thirsting, chin-deep in a lake, or
me, a spring of talent, and no takers.
* * *
The want ads never change,
but still I read them over
in winter search of four-leaf clovers.
* * *
Perhaps I’ll run an ad
to make it clear
that anytime I’m needed I am here.
* * *
In these hard times
it’s good to know I have the skills
for almost every job that’s just been filled.
* * *
Dashing for mail,
then shuffling back annoyed,
the calisthenics of the unemployed.
* * *
Pop bottles sold today:
another line of credit
in my resume.
* * *
Consider why I rocking-chair
through all insults:
it’s paradigm of effort and result.
* * *
Fresh office gossip
brought to this stale home
shines like the lights of Rome.
* * *
Of health and kin,
this note from Mom—
and “Have you found a job?”
* * *
That I am guiltless heartens me
but still
somebody has to pay the bills.
* * *
Uneasy, shy
the neighbors wave to me,
as if I have a cancer or V. D.
* * *
“I have a lead,”
I tell a working friend,
“That’s good.” The conversation ends.
* * *
After the introduction,
I’m sure he will begin,
“What do you do? What business are you in?”
* * *
How ridiculously sweet of her to flatter
my meticulous attention to details
which do not matter.
* * *
So kindly she makes love to me
of all descriptions,
as if she’s filling a prescription.
* * *
Let us rent a booth at the county fair:
I will sell slices of my mellowed tongue,
and you, doll vestments from your graying hair.
* * *
This day is stretching longer
than my heart can see.
This is the seventh Sunday I have had this week.
* * *
“Look here,” I say to me,
“try harder to get work.”
Then I dial half the number, and hang up.
* * *
Disappointment that endures
amplifies its hurt—
cynical of harvest, covetous of dirt.
* * *
Through this twilight’s last gleaming
I observe
the body being fed, the spirit starved.
* * *
Worst of all,
your calls
are not returned.