you work

you work
for money to
buy you things.
like food.
and clothes.
gas for the car.
a martini or
two and a steak
when needed.
it's a selfish
life
with the boy
in California,
the ex wife
remarried,
the dog
in dog heaven.
but you feel no
guilt.
you sleep well
under the stars,
under
the roof that
you pay
for with work.
you have your
books. your
poetry.
your hands, your
eyes.
your memories
still in tact,
and tomorrow, at
least you hope
you do.