Katiesings: I understand. Poverty doesn’t eat you whole. It just keeps grinding away until not much is left, even hope.

The tension and stress of trying to outlast each month wears you down, especially as it never relents. Every month is the same race between available money and remaining time. And time slows down as money diminishes.

Hope things are looking up for you or that you have reached a satisfactory accommodation. That’s what I’ve tried to do.

BTW, this poem was published in a slightly different form in the anthology Out of the Depths: Poetry of Poverty, which was written exclusively by poor people.

Unfortunately, some wires got crossed and I am listed in the bio section as having died in 2013. Spooky.

Honorary Schizophrenic. Recent refugee. Displaced person. Old white male. Confidant of cassowaries.

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