WORKING CLASS DAY

WORKING CLASS DAY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2021



First thing in the morning,

bringing the garbage can

to the side of the road,

I feel the cool air of

the last cold front of the season.

It’d be the perfect weather

to throw open windows,

air out the house

before the on-slaw

of hot Florida summer.

But renting from a slumlord

makes that near impossible.

He owns maybe a third

of all the rentals in the county

and has a reputation

of not fixing things

unless forced to, legally.

The reputation is justified.



He lived in a three-story, multi-million dollar house

in a gated community

for years,

bought off the backs of

working-class renters in

over-priced,

under-maintained

homes and apartments

just this side of being condemned.



Our neighborhood

has the same service vehicles

as the rich do,

except here,

the service trucks –

cable TV truck,

Joe’s Plumbing,

Best County Electric –

head out in the AM.

for their daily work,

and return at night

for a working man’s

and woman’s dinner

of burgers,

hot dogs

and mac and cheese.

While the rich

only see these trucks

and their drivers

for repairs,

have burgers and dogs cooked on a grill

in the backyards

during summer.



Garbage day

is frequently

scavenger day.

This is when several vehicles

whose owners are always

half-a-step

ahead of the garbage trucks,

cruise through the neighborhood

looking for

large metal items –

washers,

dryers,

old bathtubs –

to cart off to recycle

for cash,

old discarded furniture –

“Oh, look, the Jonesess bought

a newer couch” –

to sell at yard sales,

and other such finds.

My kids grew up

calling the discarded furniture

“early American curbside.”

I cringed when I’d see the furniture,

especially on my way out of the neighborhood

on my way to work;

since my ex- would sometimes

cart the stuff home.

“Look, honey, a new couch!

Chair!”

I hated this,

and also refused

his attempts to bring home

sed mattresses.

Some of the stuff

is salvageable:

a fresh coat of paint,

a little cleaning,

and it sells for

a few extra bucks.

If the same items

were in antique shops,

the rich might pay

even more.



A neighbor once told me

of his uncle,

a man who’d made a small fortune.

“He always said

that the poor just don’t working

hard enough,

which is why we’re poor.”

I think of those I know –

working-class poor,

with their multiple part-time

minimum wage jobs

piece-mealed together

with over-lapping shifts

feeling lucky when we get

50, 60 hours a week

(with no over-time pay on

those multiple jobs)

and think,

“How does one call it a life

when you can hardly afford to live?”



It wasn’t the rich

who built this country,

who built their companies,

who live in their fancy homes

and drive their expensive cars.

The rich merely

benefited from the

working-class’s work.

If every one of the working-class quit,

who would build the cars?

bag the groceries?

ring up the groceries?

patch the car tires?

True,

it’d be difficult

for the poor to eat.

But with minimum wages

so low,

it’s no wonder

some people must choose

between food and healthcare,

housing and transportation,

life and mere survival.



What we need is an overhaul,

in a fair overhaul.



This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.