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The Worker


He must endure work, for writing such

As his won’t pay the bills. His stomach tight,

He forces through each day with dreams of night

Dancing like show girls just beyond his reach.

Then, when it's six o' clock, he feels cast out,

Unsure of what to do or whom to call

When anything he does is bound to fall

Away like pebbles from a bridge. He's sought

Escapes in alcohol, the fog of dope:

One led to rage, the other panic spells.

Without the fires from these familiar hells

He stumbles through the darkness, giving up

The hours like dying pets who've lost their voices.

He thinks he can remember having choices.


Jeff Holt



© 2001; originally printed in the Formalist.  Reprinted
by permission of the author.

Backgrounds by
Karen S. Nicholas

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