Caught between sidewalks marked by homelessness and the grind of daily labor, I begin to question what it means to truly live. This poem about work and life explores how obligation, survival, and routine can strip us of presence, leaving us wondering if we’ve mistaken existence for living.
Grey concrete, stained with footsteps,
sugary drinks, last night’s trash,
my inspiration for today.
Daily, I walk this sidewalk,
through a neighborhood
of more complexes than homes.
Co-workers whisper:
“Dangerous. Too much homelessness.”
I’m not blind to the woman
shaking profusely, wrapped in months-old garb,
her hair half-tied,
telling its own weary story.
She stands beside a shopping cart
filled with fragments of her world.
She mutters to herself,
glassy eyes skyward,
present,
but far from here.
She doesn’t ask for money.
Doesn’t look my way.
Doesn’t threaten,
doesn’t repel.
She simply exists,
in time and space,
just like me.
“Perhaps,
her life is easier than mine.”
I’m enslaved to work and obligation, pressed to conform to societal norms.
All for what,
Food? Drink? Comfort?
If I wake to work,
and work to live,
just to someday
enjoy what I’ve earned,
then surely,
I’m not living
right now.
Every obligation asks for more of us, but not every moment returns life in full. Stop and consider: are you working to live, or living to work? The difference may be the weight you carry — or the freedom you find.
