I've scrubbed your toilets, pulled your garden weeds,
Washed rest'raunt dishes, taken out your trash,
I've fact'ry worked, until my body bleeds,
To pay off bills that leave me no more cash.
It's me, out on the streets, whom you avoid:
The tired one, no stylish clothes, no car.
I don't smell good and you look so annoyed.
If you brushed me, designer clothes I'd mar.
I check you out at Wal*mart, wash your wheels;
I clean your laundry, even clean your pet;
I watch your kids and old folks. Yet, it feels,
You look at me as though we've never met,
Don't know I'm sick, exhausted, under paid;
You do not know someone on Medicaid.
http://rriverstone.com/poetry/health.html
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