When “up”
meant “shine,” meant
“spiral” and “rise,”

when “up” shone
and felt holy,
some heaven to which
aspirations aimed;

when “upward mobility”
suggested movement
and not stasis suspended
in payment hell,

I would glory in the prospect. 

Now it’s the promise
of a new dryer, one level up
from what I could have afforded
last month, one level up
from what I might afford next month.

And the car’s burning oil,
and the smoke rises up and floats
across the neighbor’s yard 
when I park it, and I can see them
turning up their noses.

Up, they say, might end up
up-ended for good for some,
for nearly all;

and two letters
end up looking
like a middle finger
pointing up, and the only thing
of mine that’s really rising

is red,
is behind my eyes,
is dying to get out.