mornings
like this
that i think about quitting.
stopping.
getting off the work train,
how much
more money is needed.
at this point i know i'll
die with most of it
in the bank, or in the safe,
or the kitchen drawer.
why work?
why keep at it. pounding
the pavement.
but i shrug and rise,
i shower
and shave, make coffee.
i am my own slave.
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