There are those days when nothing major goes wrong,
But you realize things ain’t right.
Like when I stood at the intersection dragging a cart stacked with gray boxes,
The wind blew straight down my nostrils,
And with it my naivety, gaiety,
Landing a blow of sobriety that the world ain’t so pretty,
That work can be brutal and noxious,
Even when it is for a greater cause,
Everybody’s expressions get obnoxious,
And you just want to yell stop this!
And at night you see the faces of dead white men,
Immortalized on dead green bank notes,
And you stop caring about a lover.
Standing at an intersection waiting for it to all blow over,
so you call someone over for help,
to at least share the burden of blame,
and to blunt the burn of the shame,
of toiling for the respect of an old man, through the blessing of more dead white men.