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The Worker
He must endure work, for writing such As his won’t pay the bills. His stomach tight, He forces through each day with dreams of night Dancing like show girls just beyond his reach. Then, when it's six o' clock, he feels cast out, Unsure of what to do or whom to call When anything he does is bound to fall Away like pebbles from a bridge. He's sought Escapes in alcohol, the fog of dope: One led to rage, the other panic spells. Without the fires from these familiar hells He stumbles through the darkness, giving up The hours like dying pets who've lost their voices. He thinks he can remember having choices.
Jeff Holt
©
2001; originally printed in the Formalist.
Reprinted |