Good for Something

In the fifties there wasn’t much to go around

So I started scrounging for my own money,

Wandering truck lots in search of

Pop bottles redeemable for two cents apiece,

Or a nickel for the quarts,

To buy a Kayo and a candy bar,

At the butchers for fifteen cents.

Then I was a shoeshine boy for a summer or three,

Strap over my shoulder, lugging my shoeshine box.

“Shine, mister?”

When we moved to a place there was grass

And I was strong enough

I raked leaves, mowed lawns with a push mower,

Shoveled walks,

Waited to get my social security card

So I could get a real job,

So now, when work is lean

It brings me up against all my triggers,

Asking me, If I aint working,

What am I good for?

Lately I’ve been fighting my way to answering,

“Writing a poem or two,

You Son of a bitch.”