Bags filled with
broken promises and
hands full of random illnesses
and injuries: that’s where I am
in this late middle age.  I have
the residuals of bad choices
to weigh me down
and of course
the words, the Work,
always and forever
driving me.

To feel better
I’d give up a lot, 
but not the drive, not the Work.
I’d let blacktop cover me,
let the city take my home, 
let me fall on a sidewalk
outside the library.  Let them
use me as a warning, let them
slip me into forgotten history
and leave me there — but the Work

shall remain on my tongue
poised for release
then fight its way past
my light stripped eyes through
frozen fingers into the world
where it will live or not on its own
because that’s my Work 
and I’m not done with my job.
I’m not quitting it just to die
at peace with my body
and my wallet. No.