Here are some more signs of poverty.

I can’t stop thinking about my friends at the factory, Debra, Jimmy, Tim, Fernando, Virginia, Linda, Anita, Bill, Augustin, Jack, and all those others in PPE. They work their tails off as I lounge in the bed. I may get comfortable, and soon expect them to buy me four pair of shoes, three computers, a pet, a fully-furnished apartment, expensive toys, a car, a phone, . . .

I wonder how many people are prevented from going to work only because they are being processed, or maybe because some great leader had to take sweeping corrective action. How many of them are being processed because they had industrial accidents and then incurred great hospital bills? How many people incurred great hospital bills because the nurse kept prodding with questions about how they felt until they broke down and came up with something so she could add it to the IV cocktail at ten-times face value? How many people are on disability that don’t want to be?

And then, how few are left scurrying around, short-shifted, carrying the extra weight and paying taxes so drama queens can have the time to protest this and that to demand that government give them (the drama queens) more and more of their (the worker bees’) paychecks?

That’s what hurts, Nurse. Do you have anything for that?