The Lost Generation

Poetry

8 AM wake-up call, another day for another dollar,

or so it goes with that minimum-wage life,

and your head felt like it barely hit the pillow

before you were waking up for another shift.

the Cheerios are stale, but you crunch them down,

with the milk about a day to expire (tastes just fine),

and you can hear your mom through her closed door,

probably getting ready for another video interview.

you don’t forget to grab your mask on your way out,

all prepared for another public transit nightmare

in a time when “essential” means little room

for the ones who have no choice but to work.

on the news you saw the debate for an increase

to a minimum wage that can no longer support

the people who need to live on it to survive —

but it’s all a wash anyway, dead on arrival.

the convenience store haze, with the customers

who yell and snark and haggle over clearance items,

makes you bleary-eyed and tired-all the more