The following poem supplements our recent feature
('Middle-Aged and Unemployed").
The poet - a NYSID alum - prefers to remain anonymous.
Please note that the poet is not the author of
"Middle-Aged and Unemployed."

THE CRIME

With a hand on my shoulder, they passed me the forms.
Sign here, and then there, then out the door.
Say hello to your escort, our security man.
Thanks for your service, keep in touch if you can.

In a cold parking lot, I began taking stock.
Three decades of memories all in this box.
I stole to my car, slumped down, and reclined.
A dozen more payments and it would be mine.

A shabby departure neither expected nor planned.
No well-wishers, family or assembled fans.
No hearty handshakes, no terms of endearment.
Just a one-time, “generous” severance agreement.

Was this a new chapter? A blessing disguised?
An alternate pathway to the ultimate prize?
I’ll dust off that resume; give it some tweaks.
I’ll start anew; it may take a few weeks.

Weeks turned to months; and months became years.
I reinvented myself, then reinvented my fears.
My glass stands half empty; my nest egg half gone.
The haze of my window obscures the day’s dawn.

My friendships have dwindled, my mind is adrift.
They took back my car; can you give me a lift?
I still have my phone which barks night and day.
Can’t those carnivorous creditors seek other prey?

I could blame the recession, or yesterday’s skills.
But those aren’t the reasons I’m smothered in bills.
There’s only one soul I charge with this crime.
He turned me old; his name’s Father Time.

- The Jobless Poet

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