Labor Sons

Posted on February 14, 2008 in Poetry, Writing

Labor Sons

And I dream
in those quiet times
of friends past
and faces lost
words spoken, or not,
of clasping hands
and weary eyes.

I dream of lovely agonies
and careless minutes
strewn, about
grinning stupidly
at the humdrum
of daily shuffle
and passing time.

Labor sons, we trusted
the clock, plodding
and plotting to overcome it,
the week, the day
the hour, the damned
Banker’s hour
and the shallow dollar.
The Butcher’s week.

Pockets pleading and
shoulders tight, the way
was to not-think
to think of anything
somewhere else
and bide, silently bide
we chewed our tasteless
food with the same
mechanical efficiency.

© 2.14.08 Anthony Sell