The Weight of Money by Sean Thomas Dougherty
the weight of money is more than can be measured
The Weight of Money
Is worth mentioning is one gram. But a Benjamin is a liter of blood. I often remind my kids that a Happy Meal costs a quarter of an hour. Your bicycle was a week’s wage. This house is a lifetime of overtime and weekends away from you. Not to be a dick but so they can learn the weight of money is more than can be measured, the human wages of what we earn. How do we balance the weight of a heart, or a hand, with what the cost will be? The cost of a prescription for sunshine? The cost for a cup of rain? They could if they could put a price on every breath: one price for the exhale and another for each inhale. A price for opening one’s eyes. What price is it to be able to dream after working a double shift? Still sometimes I dream of working at the newspaper plant, the dark ink stains on my hands. The whirr and round of the paper insert machines. The slap of the plastic strapper wrapping the bundles of papers for delivery. If one broke, the supervisor would scream and yell. The line of immigrants, men, and women from Ghana and Chile, students and union workers. The dust of ink and paper covered us. Our wages were not worse than better. We worked until the sun rose, left to shower and go to another job or classes, or to get children off to school. We cashed our checks at the bank or the bodega on Fridays and held the dollars in our hands. How many grams for a six pack for Friday night. How many grams for a head of lettuce. How many grams for an eighth of cocaine. How many grams for a loaf of bread. How many grams we spent on rent. A new wrench. Gasoline. A haircut. Collard greens. An orchid. How many grams to sit by the river and watch the rapids swirl between the Granite Street bridge? How many grams to dive in? And not drown? How many grams for a funeral? A wedding? A mango? A lime? A wristwatch? A guitar? How many grams does it take to sing the blues? How many grams does it take to shine?
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Great poem & so true. Who doesn’t feel pressed by the weight of money these days. Briefly worked for the Washington Post in the late 00s - they encouraged all new employees to tour the printing plant. A sacred sort of place, but even then - the website taking over. Money exiting journalism like sand in an hourglass.
Wonderful poem! I worked in a newspaper plant after high school. I remember my ink-stained hands.