And

Sitting in a hot room

In what can only be termed hell

Looking down at new cuts

On tired and aching fingers

That nonetheless continue to type

Every digit lacerated

And every thought in my head to rest

The working man looks west

Dreams of lawn chairs

Barbecue

Or in my case

Writing without “work”

Which is a misnomer

Really

Because I have had my hand on the shovel

For twelve hours a given day

I have stuck my fingers in the asses of minds

That have needed bowel stimulus

I have burned my fingers

On restaurant order wheels

And stained the same fingers

With ink madness

From newspapers I dreamt to write in

Not to deliver

For all of this:

The hardest day I’ve ever had,

Two hours of writing is harder than

Fourteen on a roof

Anyone will tell you

The only thing I hate more than roofing

Is roofing

In mindless work

There is no great nobility

There is no goal

Just endless repetition

Performed by cowards

For objective items in

A subject/object paradigm

Which I have worked

Oh, Lord, have I “worked”

All my life to get away from

As tiring as this act is

It is still the best thing a man can do

Following his heart

Not following an axe

With another breath