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For Three Hours And A Lawnmower

Due to fifty square feet
that denies a patio set
and a gas fireplace
that throws no heat
and a car that's broken into
twice a month,
there's suspicion that
this middle class status
is a technicality.

Particle board, cheap sealant,
neighbours who can hear every drip and cough,
driving both ways in the dark
to purchase three waking hours
in a future tenement:
these are the waking dreams of grown-ups
who brag that they bought the cheapest mower
of the highest quality.

And yet,
we all sit clean and straight through sermons
about the Good Lord that makes us possible.
We're such happy sheep aplenty
while the organ plays a hymn of praise.
We put money in the offering plate
and we nod and smile during potluck
over the Free Zone's finest plastic plates,
and we won't know
that they once passed by
six-cent workers in a row on metal chairs.

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