The job is killing me, he says
and I nod,
glancing at the headstones
along the cemetery path.
I’m just dying. There’s nowhere to go, he says
shaking his head.
I remind him about his family
about his music
about all the little things
we do to fill our life
with distractions
so that we can do something
anything
other than think about how our jobs are killing us,
whittling us down
in small bites
so that each
moment
we step inside those doors
won’t feel like our last.
Because if the babies
and the art
and the movies
and the music
and the galleries
and occasional trips
don’t keep distracting us
we’ll realize
that we’ve sold
the best of us
for a paycheck
the amount of which
will never
add up
to all that we’ve given.