Punching Time

So these
are the 40 hours I have to pawn.
Worth many times what you will offer
but I have bills; rent,
electric; I need to feel
like I’m headed somewhere.
Lick a thumb, bend
your stingily haired head
and count out my cash above
your button threatening stomach.
As much as I will hate myself
I will reach to take it;
that little roll will not be an insult,
will bulk my pocket,
straighten my shoulders walking
out into the weekend, something
to bounce my step
until Monday’s time card thunk
like a closing door
on five days, five fingers
counted down
to clutch the next wad
pushed through the slit
of the greasy plastic
separating me from you.