Last Call

Your fingertips are dry, the flesh thin and flimsy. The work is long and this body is always so damn drowsy.

Old wood makes splinters as the ancient heater summons shivers. The day’s not done even if your brain insists to every muscle that they can’t go on.

Laboring fiercely to scrub the world clean, you’re making a better tomorrow. Though who knows if this form can see a new day, all your time is borrowed.

Sleep when you’re dead, they told you when you were soft and new. Now you wish someone had pushed an alternative point of view.

You work hard to get ahead; you chose honest labor over all the lying. Yet here you are on your last breath, at least you died trying.