Theft

I'm so hungry I'm out of heart.
I steel myself;
A persona five days a week
Dressed to the nines to fives' demands
And sent away empty-handed.
Overqualified for work;
Underqualified to live.
The dead aren't people,
Walking or no.
We don't get to be,
Because we don't get to *be*.
But the fridge is empty,
So I volunteer
As tribute to SNAP,
As if job hunting wasn't full-time as is.
When volunteering, people ask
The question of status,
Of capitalist value,
The classist classic,
"What do you do?"
What do I say?
The truth?
"Stare at an ever shrinking savings,
The only thing saving me
From saving face by
Facing my fears—
Highway speed traffic style—head-on?"
No.
"I write.
Yes,
I'm published.
No, it doesn't pay.
That's the crime."