Labor Day is in the city and in the country here on Earth.

Most are scratching towards the middle. And so few are giving birth.

There’s a sadness in Financials. They have fired the accountant and the clerk.

The message on the answering machine says, ‘You can’t go back to work. ‘

The parade is stuck in traffic. The Grand Marshall looks forlorn.

The motivation speaker is screaming insults at some Karen on her horn.

Me? I’m writing poems. All these words freed from my head.

There’s a cat to feed and a child to see… if I can make it from this bed.