TITLE: Tormented Men, Working Wives, and Recession
By Samuel Connelly
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The hot July sun, slapping the
swollen faces of the fathers on Portman St.
Men with no jobs. Recession- our unruly
child, our mess, our early departure.
Sweaty men, pig skinned, gaping mouths
longing for a breeze to dance over their
porches as they sit in lawn chairs
looking at each other across the street
like lazy hounds.No money for valentines
they cry. No money for anniversary
No money to fix the air conditioner,
no money to look for a job
One O'clock- beads of perspiration
roll down red cheeks and drip from
some pointy, some hairy, some
square, and some double chins
to wet spots on their always
protesting stomachs. Wives sleep.
Children finish their school day-
two more hours, wives soon wake
to cook supper before dashing off
to work at St. Thomas hospital,
fingers, hearts, minds, at work
through the night. No money.
the men smack their lips,
as streams of salty perspiration
runs from their foreheads and
provoke cussing dad's as it slaps
at their eyeballs. No money for thank
you cards no money for flowers.
recession has eaten ambitions,
hope is devoured by smoldering thoughts.
no money for a new dress, no money
to buy her chocolates, no money to take
her to dinner. Oh, look, look, look
the ice cream truck- then miracles happen-
men become boys; recession has not
found our pockets, the men lick and suck
on chocolate bars and strawberry dip dots,
and in an hour, they sit and sweat and
cry and are too hot and poor to find jobs-
All hating recession
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