The Scrap Heap

The curse of unemployment

He remembers the day his boss called him in,

And his thirty years service were consigned to the bin.

“Don't worry” his boss said, “I'm sure you'll adapt”,

And with kind words and clichés he was cogently scrapped.

He looks out the window at the rain pouring down,

His sombre expression, a worry filled frown.

Just to get out of bed is becoming a trial,

His face has forgoten what it feels like to smile.

He feels like he's sinking, he's losing his grip,

He's just told his son there will be no school trip.

He'll take any job, God knows he's applied,

He's got some rejections, most haven't replied.

He queues up each week, collecting his dole,

He can't see a way to get out of this hole.

Not supporting his family he feels less of a man,

Not providing the things that other men can.

It's now been twelve months, a year to the day,

And the mortgage and bills aren't going away.

He thinks that he's useless, an unemployed punk,

On the scrap heap at fifty, like yesterday's junk!

Reviews

[alf]

Hi Mick. Thank you for speaking up on behalf of those who face this path!!! A very worth tribute to those who are taken by circumstances down a road they have no wish to travel!!! You are my knid of poet, my friend!!! alf

[Mick Burke]

Thanks Alf. I'm really glad that you're enjoying my stuff.

[alf]

I shall be back!!! Love your poems, alf

[Marie]

That's just terrible. At fifty, he has so much experience to give any employer. The job market is very tight here; I guess it's the same in Ireland

[Mick Burke]

We've been through a tough few years economically in Ireland and many people found themselves in this position. Thanks for reading and reviewing.