The Only Reason

You stand in line at the job fair
amidst all your counterparts,
their jeans just as ripped,
their hair just as unwashed,
their dreams long since dead,
drying out on a line of hopelessness
for some future boss to chew on
like a pointlessly idle snack.

You stand in line at the job fair,
and the dude in front of you,
what with what’s left of his teeth
brown and folded in,
he somehow is both tweaking
and reeking of stale pot
and staler cat piss.

You stand in line at the job fair
waiting for your number to be called,
because as bad as these prospects are,
they’re at least a few rungs up the ladder
from where you currently reside,
constantly paying for gas
with rolls of nickels and dimes.

You stand in line at the job fair,
and the lady three or four bodies back,
she’s got a crying infant on her hip,
and she looks so tired;
the bags under her eyes
have their own carry-on luggage.

You stand in line at the job fair,
and finally they call your number,
and you’re under no delusion
that you’ll ever be anything more
than those disposable digits,
and you sit down across the table
from a graying man in a suit,
and he asks you why you want to work,
and all you can think to reply is:
because I don’t want to die.