Mr Albanese; All of the Upside, None of the Risk

You may call it fair.
You may call it reform.
You may stand in Budget light
with a tie and a storm.

You may say real gain.
You may say shared load.
You may put forty-seven
at the end of the road.

But you were not there.

You were not there
when the rent came due,
when the till said no,
when the bank said you.

You were not there
when the idea got laughed
out of three small rooms
and one good draft.

You were not there
when the wages went first,
when I drank the fear,
when the month got worse.

All of the upside.
None of the risk.
A silent partner
with a public fist.

Tax me, yes.
Roads need tar.
Beds need nurses.
Kids need a start.

Mercy needs dishes.
Even hope
comes with invoices.

But do not arrive
after the fall,
after the dice,
after the wall.

Do not come smiling
when the danger is gone,
asking half the fire
from the idiot who burned.

The worker on tools.
The owner out back.
The driver, the coder,
the cleaner in black.

We know the same ledger.
We know the same rain.
We know what it costs
to stand up again.

So do not bottle resentment
and label it fair.
Do not point at the shopfront
and call it repair.

Do not call the harvest
an act of theft.
Do not weigh only the profit
and not what it left.

You were not there
when the last card failed,
when the staff looked through me,
when the good news bailed.

You were not there
when I wondered at night
if I was lonely and wrong
or lonely and right.

You were not there
when I taught myself
in the dark after work,
with a cup on the shelf.

All of the upside.
None of the risk.
You missed the long night.
You kept the list.

I know what I built.
I know what it cost.
I know every dollar
that walked into loss.

I know every room
where they said I would fail.
I know every hope
that arrived with a bill.

And still I kept going.
Not noble. Not grand.
Just one stupid candle
in one tired hand.

F.S.F.