carnal notebook

61

crazy days. little drops
of nostalgia drooping through
the faucets of my brain. i remember
growing up in a good home. how they kept
jamming into me the philosophy
of the working man
(out of love and concern for my
well-being,
my mother used to say).

now i am a workingman
and there’s hardly any work out there
for me.
i am always one step behind the rest of the world.
instead of touching on to something
new i am back to square one,
slumping through the hours under
the hard sun
for an hour’s worth
at night
alone
with my feet up
soul soaked like a
wet sponge
ready to release
the few words that come.

they are my joy.