Living in Poverty

I sleep little at night. The thought that I must work keeps me restless, and the next morning I catch the first metro toward Rebibbia, heading out to the ring road near Tivoli.
I don't care how much they pay me at the end of the month. I only know that I care deeply about going to work. I carry the memory of the dead with me, and I share every moment with the living. Whatever work they give me, I do it all week long. And when the year ends, I feel inside myself: thank God the year is over, I made it through every problem. The people I see around me work, they create the tools, and Franco and I ship them out. Then I can't wait for lunch. Every day I eat pasta—fettuccine, chicken, meat, chicory greens, or peas from the catering.
What frightens me is death. I am alive now and I go on, but the memory of the dead stays with me—those who were beside me, whose presence I still feel. I remember the moments of happiness, and when I'm alone with Franco, we think and talk with Adriano about the time we had with Vincenzo. I wonder: if I had to change jobs someday, what would stay with me is the knowledge they taught me in all the places I've been.
What troubles me is that I am poor. I scrape by, I work hard just to live, and I don't have what I want. If there were no work, I'd be better off—I wouldn't have to be watched over by a boss. When I come home, I feel good, alone. I'm better off alone, without anyone telling me how to behave. I'm too kind. I never get angry, never curse, but I think: I am poor, I live a poor life, and when I'm out in the shops I try not to leave empty-handed! OL