My children and I are home sick today and I’m feeling yucky but grateful that I’m entitled to sick leave. There are so many casual workers out there in precarious jobs with no access to the entitlements that the rest of us have. I felt like having a go at writing a poem about my reflections on this. I started these verses last year but there is nothing like a day in bed to make me grab a pen… Here it goes:

Life contracted

On the margins of the labour market I sit
and contemplate my life many shifts
I bear all the risks and I weep

As the clock strikes at zero hour
I wake to a journey of uncertainty
Evenings and weekends isolate me from myself

The Guardian of the hours profits from my weakness
Unprotected I soldier on but labour in vain
I don’t have a future, I’m worn with His gain

What’s the value of my honest toil
if I traded my soul for a life of turmoil?
The fruits of my labour in sterile soil

To the Master of the liberal market:
Your servant was once commercially viable
but his portioned task is now unreliable

So in a turbulent market I drown in despair
My life is contracted it needs repair
The source of my joy has been outsourced

Burst of casual work are deflating my soul
and dignity escaping me with every new blow
How I long for the soothing labouring hours

Rosana Wayand 2016 Copyright