when you're down that low

to me it was a job

to get

to another job.

maybe a summer,

maybe a year.

but for others, they were

grown men.

some just out of prison.

grey faced,

and weary,

hunched over mops,

or brooms,

trash bins,

living on the small paycheck

they got

twice a month.

there was a clock we

punched into.

stiff uniforms

that never quite fit,

our names

on peel off stickers

over our chests.

there was a green tiled 

room where we ate,

sitting side by side

on hard benches,

many of the men and women

black or hispanic,

and me white, but it

made no

difference,

we were all in the boat,

color meant

nothing

when you're down that low.