A Dull Boy

I’m working
to spite 
the Furies.

I’m working
though their swords
keep swinging

and this is no
Bowie song — 
their blades cut.

I’m working
to get to the top
of what’s crumbling

so I may chance
the slide down
and hope to end up

walking away
at the bottom
while dusting it off

as a bad day
at the desk where
half my work

is already simply
praying for survival
and the other half

is about how
to settle the prayer
like a blanket

over others
so no one gets
too cold or is crushed

in the aftermath 
of the hideous,
inevitable fall. 

I’m working
to answer a call
that’s been unanswered forever.

I’m working 
to distract myself
from staring at my torn hands,

noticing they are
empty, imagining
how much work it will take

to fill them now
that they are so full
of holes.

I’m working
to shake it off.
Delusion is only useful

after work.
I’m working. It’s all
work and no play

and the only sword
I have won’t stay
in my hand long enough

to fend off a blow.
I’m working. Hold my beer.
Watch me work

Watch me work
as long as I can.
I am a dull boy,

it’s fine with me

if you turn away or yawn.

I’m used to it by now.