Poetry
Born Under a Bad Sign
A poem by ©Christine Bode 2023
At the top of your business trade, pre-pandemic
Now you’re back at the beginning while inflation is endemic
Starting over now when most folks think about retiring
Feeling sorry for yourself is so ridiculously tiring
There’s nothing you can do about happenstance
Bank account screams six dollars and ninety-four cents
Coulda, shoulda, woulda, there’s no going back
No matter how hard you try, there’s always something you lack
A thousand things to learn, another thousand things to do
And no one is gonna feel sorry for you
You’ll work every weekday, weekend and holiday too
And one day, you’ll have enough to buy those new shoes
Just fake it ‘til you make it; if everyone does it, it’s no lie
Eventually, you’ll get there, so don’t take the time to cry
You’ll work until noon on the day that you die
‘Cause you’re born under a bad sign, waxing gibbous moon in the sky