Well, it happened. Someone noticed that there is no modern, working-class poetry. (http://sundresspublications.wordpress.com/2014/10/21/working-class-poetry-by-sarah-chavez/) I will not criticize the author of this piece, since, after all, she is the one who noticed. She mentions her father being injured at work, in a tomato grinder. I'm guessing she knows about the struggles of the working class first hand.
Oddly, the only poet I know personally, can also tell you stories of the struggle. One of a host of blue collar kids, in a blue collar neighborhood, in the most blue collar city the world has ever known. But apparently he isn't enough to fill the giant void in the overly-academic world of poetry; where there should be lurid tales of suffering.
Actual suffering, not entitled college student suffering. To do my part to fill this void, I will compose something. I am not a poet, mostly because I suck at poetry. Modern verse especially eludes me. Nor will I pretend to fully understand the plight of the day laborer, because, following my father's example, I fought my way out of that tax bracket.
I'm no working class hero. I own my home (well the bank owns most of it). But I am familiar with what it is to have no end in sight. My grandfather died from a terminal condition called: "Coal-Mining", and my father enlisted rather than do the same. He landed a factory job, only to have the factory sold, sold again, and finally closed, less than a decade before retirement. So while I am not the perfect example of "working-class" I can sing the songs well-enough.
The problem is, there aren't any working class poets, because they are all working. They don't have computers to send an email pestering a publisher to look at their work. They don't have the time, or energy to write any if they did. Poets have become, or maybe have always been, mostly the privileged, the entitled, and the well-off, and you write what you know.
The best we have, therefore, are those who have seen it. Those who used to be a part of it, but through hard work, or more rarely, luck, now have the time to write; are the best we can do. I feel a need to do my part to fill the ranks of blue collar poets.
The piece, I have decided, will be called "Indigo" not because this cash crop of ages past represents the exploitation of workers, but for a very modern reason. Take a look at the "Diversity", or "Rainbow" flag. If you remember your color spectrum (See TMBG if you dont), there is a color missing from that flag. Indigo. While this missing stripe might represent anything, I like to think it represents those who have more immediate problems than diversity. Things like; like "Where am I going to get three bucks for my kid's milk?"
So without further preamble...
Indigo
While you are rubbing last night's party from your eyes,
I am sweating my golden years through my shirt.
While you are deciding where to eat breakfast,
I am eating my lunch standing up, one-handed.
As you drive to your air conditioned classroom,
I am dying by inches for someone else's gain.
As you head home, wondering if there is anything good on TV,
I am praying the bus isn't late again, so I can keep my second job.
As you bitch about how hard you have it, because the barista used whole milk,
I kiss my already sleeping children, wishing I could see them awake for a change.
Your life is tied to mine in ways neither of us will understand.
Your death will be listed in the paper.
Your family will receive a check from a man in a suit.
When I go, my family and friends will be too busy to mourn.
They can't afford a suit anyway.
