July 12, 2012
Christ might have squeezed blood from a store
But she can’t - the cheap son of a bitch
(as our former temporary boss calls him)
Refusing to loosen his grip on his bulging purse,
Even for her, even as talented a writer as she is.
She once asked me how to make her approach,
When she already knows how, yet might not be willing
To go as far as that just for a few jingling coins
To keep her from starvation.
We all squeeze the same sone coming up dry
No blood, no water, just bruised palms
From gripping too hard, need it just to keep pace,
She falling behind with every other step she takes
Christ might have bled this man dry
But she can’t, needing to rely on generosity
He just doesn’t have, or perhaps
What she might have to trade for the raise,
And perhaps that’s what it means
Squeezing blood from a stone.
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