Time To Work

I rose at eight o’clock
and found myself in the text
of work. Praise then
to the body that held me fast
until I had completed
that which I set out to do

and thus armored myself
against the assaults of
nine, of ten, of this day
approaching me as if I
had become a target; praise then
to that body which buckled down

and remembered how the Work
counted and how it held me steady
and kept my pulse low in the face
of the challenges of the day:
the rich men, their lackeys,
their children, even

their children’s children —
I ceased care for them, their
sneers, their eventual disdain;
instead, I bent to the keyboard again.
It’s eight AM. This is time to work.
No time left to play, to mourn. Enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T