out of work

you've been
in the bread lines,
the soup
kitchens of America.
you've washed
your clothes in
streams
waiting, longing
for work.
you've stamped your
boots in the rain,
on the street
corners with your
homemade signs
and stared
glum eyed into
the eyes of drivers
on their way
to work, as
embarrassed
as you are.
you've mended
fences in Colorado,
stood
in the mud
digging trenches
for pipe in Alaska,
you've felt the steam
and fire of the steel
mills before
they went down
and became great
empty cold
mouths of defeat
in Pittsburgh
and ohio.
your arms have
felt the burn
and fatigue of lifting
nets of grey fish
over the sides
of wooden boats
in the chesapeake.
you've heard the words
we don't need you
anymore, and felt
the hard tap
of a hand on
your dusted laden
fired back.
you've known hunger
and thirst. you've only
want love and respect
and a good days
wage, but it's hard
to come by, no matter
what the president
or congress or
the paper has to say.