Work is food and water and beautiful
makes me shudder to remember how
it raised me the toe-stubbing avarice
of heavy wage-grubbing.
The burden will not weigh down the
light-hearted or fervent servant
only the hard and resentful know
how heavy work can be.
Labor for four hours and call it
a day culminating in a big lunch
in the spirit of the free spirit
ready for the heavy winter.
Over the small desk in the small
excuse for a large room lit only
by the promise of a paycheck
smaller than expectations.
The cart is overloaded with sand
back as stiff as the shovel’s staff
only the philosophical or experienced
can heave the beach off of the cliff.
The artist carries across the broad
shoulders and through front and back
ribs the study and preparation required
for carrying out the heavy load.
Favor not curried on site where
the culture of avoidance tears into
the fabric mom and dad wove tightly
and heavily out of their threads.
Midday I prop up the loins they
gave me to carry on with and in
reverie sunk into deliberately
I do heavy and loving labor.