There are no Heroes. A poem, by Iarlaith Cunningham

Lay over in their beds and ignore
5 AM alarms,
jingling of minimum wage.

There are no heroes.

Shine light along a dark neighbourhood,
into windows of those who sleep.
Thank you.

Now.

Wake up.

Clap until your hands are raw.
When they ask for extra pay?
Keep clapping out the noise.

An emerald isle economy;
Premium price infection.
Minimum change.

In pandemic pandemonium.
Bragging over 1000 dead.
Planning of a numbers race.
Left toward November.

Stop.

Clapping for a moment,
shine light on different dark.

There are no heroes.

Only those doing more than they should,
for less than they are owed.