3/30: Everything Hurts For Good Work

Swing that hammer. Climb that tree. Get to that clubhouse. Break that back and selfie the bandages. So many tongues, so few hands. Clouds part to reveal more, darker clouds. A rain that insists on waiting while the garden dries.

There are so many logs and not enough arms to lift. Tie those shoes, laces for tennis, applied to loose boots in the mud.  Tether your throat to the dust in the air, the dust in the air becomes the mud in your shoes. As dilligence goes, this wasn’t due.

These lines even, dashed off like they are, wouldn’t meet criteria. Those flimsy walls you’re throwing up, that half-cooked patty, served up, that warm lager. So many starving, cold people, so many people starving cold people, a listening party for the full collapse. Fix the hair. Fix the nails. Fix the shoes.

Swing that hammer. Tie that knot. Get up that last flight of stairs. Wear out those knees and wonder who, what you have to show.