It used to be good here, Myrna says,
time-and-a-half, double holidays.
It's my first week, so I nod my head,
hoping to make rent, see my kids again.
Myrna says her kids came from the same
no-good-never-handed-her-a-dime
didn't-ever-want-to-see-his-kids --
now he's in the ground.
And she looks at me like I could be him
so I smile and tell her I just fell hard
on hard-luck times. That I want to
help their mama with bills
but a man can only do so much.
You can't bleed a turnip,
she says and I agree. Then Myrna turns on me:
But you can dig a hole, throw in the seed.
She rolls her sleeves, grabs two brooms.
I barely have a handle as she sweeps circles around me.
Straight time and toting dirt, she says,
better than waiting for a root to bleed.
http://unsettledpoems.com/about_jodi
