The Arts As A Profession

On the clock
for a whole day
with no rest. 

There are people
who consider that
a hardship, an 

inequity to be
redressed at some point
with a dramatic exit

and all the fireworks
they can muster. 
I am not one of those —

I welcome this 
round the clock job,
all week gig, all year

career. Any stoppage
or break feels like a death
or at best a sickness.

I did not sign up
for this life but I take it
as my reward for

something I did in
a previous one where
I was stunted and kept

from this. This is no
job, after all. This is
an identity; why would I want

to break that? 
I turn back to it.  Go 
away. There’s work to be done

and I would prefer
to be alone, wearing myself
to a nub, as I do it.

Like most others 
who are called to this,
I’ll rest when I’ve 

died. I’ll take my break
on my back, or slumped in
a chair, better yet, head fallen

onto the desk. They’ll
pull me up and wheel me out
and someone else

will sit right down
and go, go, go
all hours until they fail.

It’s how it’s done.  Once
you’re in you stay in
till you drop

right beside
your last word
and someone new steps up.