The wages of an unskilled working man never pay enough.
From time to time,
the nickel race
keeps him from giving up.
The
blue-collared man in Seattle never lives on White Collar Street,
but there was food on the table for my Washington woman and me.
The work slowed down, and then one day,
the foreman laid me off.
That night, in a tavern
down to my last dime,
I met a girl from Arkansas.
Her daddy was a banker in Little Rock.
She
had a mansion on White Collar Street.
The next morning, my Washington woman woke up
without me.
From city to city and state to state,
I grew healthier with shame.
My Washington
woman had six months left before our child
would bring her pain.
My Arkansas woman hugged
me
as we crossed the Arkansas line,
but the arms of Seattle were arms that kept bugging
my mind.
Three years of fast and expensive wines taste cheaper every day.
I gave up all
the things I love
for all these things I hate.
She locked up all of her forgiveness the day
I set myself free,
and the heart of my Washington woman stopped beating for me.
My Washington woman sends me a letter every once in a while.
Inside a folded,
wordless page
is a picture of my child.
All at once,
the room grows cold with a feeling of jealousy,
and there's a silence between my Arkansas woman
and me.