My Health

By John Grey

It’s all screwed up,

that’s what I know.

Working more hours for less pay.

College degree and flipping burgers –

that’s combo number 5.

And debt  – I’ve got more debt

that you’ve eaten stale buns.

Credit card debt. Car loan.

A month’s back rent.

And the ten I borrowed from Jake.

Who’s Jake? He’s big and rough,

that’s who Jake is.

And I’m pissed, totally.

‘Cause I can’t get ahead.

‘Cause the fish don’t bite.

‘Cause I’ve a wicked hangover

and a headache

like six kids’ drum-kits.

The church wants me

but I can’t afford it.

My parents would have me home

as long as I’m not me.

My ex says – you don’t want to know.

Can I go back and start again?

Mother’s arms. The teat.

The burping. The rocking away

of my tears.

No, instead I have to decide

who to vote for,

whose lies I can believe

long enough to punch a name.

“Punch” – that’s the key word.

If I could just punch somebody out –

the loudmouth in the bar,

the guy who cut me off on the highway,

the old man.

Uh oh, there’s Jake.

Maybe “punch” is his key word too.

It’s pathetic.

No one can get ahead

except the ones born rich.

Donald Trump says I’m a slacker.

A guy from the Cato Institute

proclaims I get what I deserve.

Phone rings. Debt collector.

Then the phone doesn’t ring

’cause it’s been shut off.

What’s next? The electricity?

The water? The blood?

I see my ex in the street

and she says – you’ll have

to wait until she takes up poetry.

Right now, she’s figuring on

the martial arts.

Is that Jake she’s with?

Jake’s with everybody these days.

That’s him on the TV standing

next to John McCain or Obama

or one of the Bushes.

He’s in CSI – Birmingham.

“That’s Jake!” I scream.

“He’s the killer.”

And all for my ten bucks,

which I don’t have.

But this is America, isn’t it.

If I had the ready,

it’d be some other place.

Maybe Canada…

mountains and prairies and health insurance.

Or Sweden…

blondes and health insurance.

Or Australia…

beaches and health insurance.

Jake’s pounding on the door.

If he doesn’t kill me,

I probably can’t afford it.

John Grey is an Australian poet, U.S. resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.