The Haunting of Minimum Wage

In the dim glow of flickering bulbs,
they linger, the specters of minimum wage,
hovering in the corners of diner booths,
where dreams are served with a side of struggle,
and hope is garnished with despair.

They are the late shifts and early mornings,
the quiet sighs of worn-out soles,
the hands that serve yet go unseen,
counting coins with tired fingers,
mapping the months on a crumpled calendar,
each mark a reminder of what remains,
what is barely enough.

The chatter of patrons fills the air,
but beneath the laughter lies a weight,
the unspoken truth of lives lived on the edge,
where every hour is a gamble,
and the stakes are steep —
rent unpaid, bills overdue,
the haunting refrain of “just enough.”

In the shadows of the clock,
time ticks like a metronome,
steady and unforgiving,
a reminder that dreams can’t be bought
with pennies that slip through fingers,
where ambition collides with reality,
and the nights stretch long,
filled with the echoes of unfulfilled wishes.