July 8, 2009

I am a beast of burden.

I am a beast of burden.

Upon my back silver
chalices are filled, brimming
with ambrosia or nectar.

The man that owns me
wears suits costing more
than my salary.


The transmission is
assembled thousands
of times.

But I only turn three
screws and I have no idea
what this automobile

looks like after
we both leave
the factory.

I walk the blocks
home, massaging
my wrist, waiting

only to fall down
into the chair and
die for the day.

But my wife looks
at me, and with her
eyes, those down-

turned corners, she
still looks sad when
a forced smile

glances across her
face and hopefully
asks me of my day.

What is there left
to say?