by Grace C. Joyner

Bitter is what I came to find
In front of me and not behind
When I was let go from my toil
Kitchenwork, tupperware and foil.
Pennies and nickels I received
Separating spice from leaves
Indoor work was fine by me
Binding but almost freed.
Helping myself to sugar and pastry
Until the time they made me leave.
Out the door when the job did fold
In bitter cold like being sold.

Job by Grace C. Joyner

© Copyright 2003. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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