Minimum Wage


I go about my work

With hardly a thought

Except finishing the next project

Completing the new deadline

Contemplating, that $50 an hour is not enough

For my talents.

You come to the AFB unable to hear

Hardly able to speak;

Developmentally disabled

They call you.

You come to my office

Waving from the hall

With this gigantic smile

That lights up my heart

You show me your badge with your picture

You wear around your neck on a chain

Like mine

So proud you are to be like us, the ‘normal’ ones

I smile I wave, then wonder…

Who is truly disabled?

And why do we label you?

How many who have 20/20, who can hear

How many with an IQ of 165

Take time to smile and wave at me

From down the hall?

Which of them would face a new day

Knowing each morning their chores

Would include cleaning another toilet

Emptying another waste basket

Sweeping another floor.


All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd


9 thoughts on “Minimum Wage

  1. and you never know… some of the ones scrubbing toilets, just may have a higher IQ than you think… or than yourself…

    “The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.”
    – Samuel Johnson


  2. The question so much the crux of this one to me – I kept trying to read this without having to look at the picture.The poem seems so important and the image lessens the impact to me on this one. Strong poems deliver stronger images that can be found often.


  3. You are a rare gem, Sara. It is sad that most people dismiss “disabled” people as having nothing to offer. The irony is that they offer lessons on living without even trying. Who, then, is truly “disabled?”


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