working manís blues 


 

it's one of those songs
that a man just can't
get out of his head.

it plays upon
his uneasy soul
like a tireless
mad drummer
beating him down
with
relentless rhythms
of
depression
debilitation, and
dehumanization

filling his days
with dread
his nights
with more
of the same
the chorus
of travail
reverberating
over the miles
following him
from paycheck
to paycheck
even haunting
his sleep.

 

he feels
the walls closing in
hears
the rats of ill fortune
gnawing away
at his dreams
smells
the decay
of a stagnant life
tastes
the blood rising up
his throat
from swallowing his pride
like a rusty razor blade
one time too many.

he looks in the mirror
and sees a man
who looks kinder
than his life
and older
than his years
the mirror
clouded with worry
as the walls close in
landlord beige
blotting out
silver linings
eclipsing the sun
 

 

while our hero
anxiously awaits
the final notes
of a melody
that plays on and on
the working man's blues
background music
of a life of futility

a song

  that

     never

        seems

            to end.

© by Jack T. Marlowe

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