Work

Fable-building in the dark, a hobby that’s been taken too far,

Wet with spatters and streaks of real glowing potential,

I think rivers are where civilization was born,

All those who toiled in unhewn dirt, tucked into the belt of Venus,

Priests of many different dusky stages, flattening their feet, their palms, to pray for you,

And go on until the sky can’t get darker.

Putting it off and banging the drums,

Going on all day, pattering feet and sticks without thought,

Coal stacks and steam and machines that moan louder than me, or my tools,

The choice was never yours, but was made long ago,

The paths your ancestors took, the heads they bowed,

Their submission from long ago,

Lingers like the smell of smoke in your hair,

And it stings your eyes more than your daily sweat,

But there’s nothing to be done but keep it on and burning a candle,

For a smell to cover that highway flavor,

So we can look back wistfully at the will,

We were never given.