Working Stiffs

By Don Iannone

I've grown somewhat jaded

about the ability of work

to bring true meaning to our lives.

Pragmatically, I understand

that most of us must work to survive--

that is we must do something

for money to support ourselves.

I'm not saying it isn't possible

to find personal meaning and purpose

in the work we do, but

I am saying that it is a struggle--

a fight much harder to fight for many.

Growing up in eastern Ohio in the 1950s,

men literally killed themselves working.

The area's unsafe factories and coal mines

maimed and killed many workers,

denying many children their fathers early on.

Today fewer men and women die on the job,

but many more succomb to stress-related illnesses,

which in many cases cause their death.

Looking inside many workplaces,

I see an equally important issue:

the work people do is breaking their spirit

and robbing them of their happiness.

This too is a form of death.

So this poem is dedicated

to all the working stiffs out there--

those who are underpaid

and even those who are overpaid.

I salute you for your forbearance, and

for doing what you must to survive.

But my advice to you is this:

don't accept your current work reality

as your final work reality.

Work at your happiness, and

what brings meaning and purpose to your life.

In so doing, your spirit is rightfully served.