to those in need

because you've worked
your entire life from the age
of twelve,
cutting grass, delivering
newspapers, collecting
bottles
for pennies and nickels
in return,
shoveling snow,
you have little
sympathy for those
who refuse
to work.
not the lame, the crippled
or insane
or otherwise
impossibly inept at making
their own way,
but those who can,
those who know how to read
and write,
who can do the simple math
of life.
work equals pay.
it's hard to get the call
from those you know
for money, for hand outs
to pay a bill overdue,
for gifts that you've struggled
so hard to obtain.
and yet the endless
enabling goes on.
so you write the check and send it.
guilt is a powerful thing
even when it's wrong.