06-14-2022, 04:43 AM
Life in the Soft Lane
Anyone can see from my soft hands
how parasitic I’ve become of late:
palms without callouses, nails pink and clean;
loose knuckles never barked in shop or fight.
I’ve even lost my writer’s thickening
along those fingers pencils used to rub;
this week I took a chunk out gardening–
it bled like fun: a farmer would have laughed.
But then, a farmer wouldn’t understand
how merely getting old could bring in cash
or typing, dreaming, all but mind at rest.
My idle life extends, I own enough
to buy my needs from men with hands still rough.
Anyone can see from my soft hands
how parasitic I’ve become of late:
palms without callouses, nails pink and clean;
loose knuckles never barked in shop or fight.
I’ve even lost my writer’s thickening
along those fingers pencils used to rub;
this week I took a chunk out gardening–
it bled like fun: a farmer would have laughed.
But then, a farmer wouldn’t understand
how merely getting old could bring in cash
or typing, dreaming, all but mind at rest.
My idle life extends, I own enough
to buy my needs from men with hands still rough.
Non-practicing atheist




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