The Workhouse

It’s pretty human to shirk,
to shy away
from what looks like
work but
no matter his condition
or how late the hour,
sooner or later, on calloused knees,
each exits illusion’s bower
and punches a clock.

From first breath indentured,
don’t we all,
whether slaving for Peter,
for Paul,
or Joe Blow Commerce
down the block,
have misted life’s hard labour
sole on offer,
to answer
what a wandering dream forbode,
and fill time’s echoed coffer,
load upon tiny load?

Theories are
with schemes, in plenty,
none the one true,
concerned with where we go
or come from,
what a man
or woman is supposed to be
or do.

Hold my hand, dear chosen friend,
until we both corrode,
as in the front-porch swing we sit,
procrastinate a bit,
then ponder why the stars began,
when it all implodes.

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