The Proletarian's Sorry Dream

The sun has gone. It is, after all, September,
The finish to Labor Day weekend, and, custom
Has it, the last day of summer, though calendars
Say that we've got two more weeks. I will
Savor them, as I am idle, but, elsewhere,
The hot dogs and hamburgers all have been eaten.
The pools have invited in swimmers a final time,
But they'll be drained tomorrow, and that sorry myth
Of a summer of leisure, a thought which flits
Dismally within the minds of the drones who,
In fact, have to show up for work every day,
Every season, grows fainter, and, after
The equinox, dies. They transfer their longing
To Thanksgiving, Christmas, whatever's
Available to give them reason to think that
They'll get to have time to themselves.
Bundled up, and unhappy, they'll celebrate
Debt and privation, and wait for the chance
To anticipate warmer weather and days they
Aren't off, the summer which won't be,
The leisure unseen, until Labor Day's over
Again.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 38 times
Written on 2021-09-07 at 03:31

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