in progress

in progress
by jamh

I work and I work.
My hands wonderfully hurt
as I fall deep into sleep
the moment I lie down.

And I dream of nothing.
No regrets, no violence.
Not in lust, not marrying
a bride without a gown.

I say work must be a right
before that of free thought,
or comfort, or so called
pursuit of happy-idleness.

It frees you from troubadours
that fill your brain with tunes
to pickpocket your wage
in the back of their Mercedes.

Oh the monks were right!
And so were the fascists
who hunted me like a sheep,
making me jump from rock to rock,

sparkly rock, of my hometown,
ground into the fine gold
of my first love, first kiss,
first story invented in bliss.

So I pick another brick
and lay it over the scene
of a dry serpentine river
hugging the south of the mountain.

There, in miniature, a boy
follows a girl with bound dark hair.
The wind ruffles her dress.
he does look but shies away.

The sun is harsh, the ground
glitters, opalescent
with imbedded specks of happiness.
For climbing is also work




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