Social Security
I work the phones and everyday
hear how the country is going to the dogs,
but bastards like me wouldn't know about that,
would I?
"It's disgusting, it's a disgrace,
I want action, I want the minister
onto my case.
What do you people think we're supposed to eat?
the furniture? sleep on the street?
they told us Monday the money'd
be in the bank Tuesday, and today's Thursday ...
never expected handouts ...
paid taxes for forty years ..."
I try to probe gently,
but still bulldoze through lives,
into the bedrooms and hostels for battered wives.
I hear castaway Sharons from Rooty Hill,
sniffling and pregnant with
their first child still ill,
Blue-chip Clydes from the lower north side,
bitter to be begging, but in debt to their eyes,
truckies and brickies, beefy blokes under siege,
broken down harder than their machinery:
wife and life have left them on the skids,
two kids, christ above, how can they survive,
working 'til five to come home and
cook, clean and love?
I take pride in my work,
and can reel off options and last resorts
like a travel agent smoothly extolling
the virtues of various Caribbean destinations:
down at heels? try Meals on Wheels,
St Vincent de Paul will take your call,
Smith Family, social workers, Salvos,
lifeline, Wayside Chapel ...
Whilst in detox, our clients choose to stay
at the Matthew Talbot Institute for the destitute
sometimes the voice could be of
a parent or friend,
which can be disconcerting:
"I'd like to report the death of my husband,
a blind pensioner, he hung himself Wednesday,
is there a last cheque to send?"
This morning a radio personality
was painting, with righteous indignation,
the parlous state of the nation,
telling how single mothers are baby factories,
just spitting out kids to rake in the benefits,
grasping our back-broken taxes with their
shrewd, bony fingers:
"I can understand that anyone can make a mistake once,
but five or six times?
it begins to look like carelessness,
it's high time ...
face facts ...
stop rot ...
draw line ...
pay piper ...
Geoff