GAINFUL

Way of the Labourer

like that of the dog

waiting to be walked.

But the path of those not yet pardoned

by the work force, of the man hopeful,

asleep at three on another of eternity’s

afternoons, or of the woman seeking

repose in even a single response,

is that of the Master, waiting for

anyone to bring the leash,

to employ the longwalk from here

to solemnity.

On my commute into the City,

I saw her. She had face-dirt,

holes in her clothes and

hands that were not

hands, at all. For her

work, she chose

to sell flowers,

White Flowers

and roses,

to both those

who would

buy, and to those

who would

not. The dog

she had

working with

her looked

more happy

than hungry.

I did not

stop

for flowers

for fear

of being late

on this,

my last

day.