Labor

I spent what light Saturday sent sweating

And learned to cuss cutting grass for women

Kind enough to say they couldn’t tell the damned

Difference between their mowed lawns

And their vacuumed carpets just before

Handing over a five-dollar bill rolled tighter

Than a joint and asking me in to change

A few lightbulbs. I called those women old

Because they wouldn’t move out of a chair

Without my help or walk without a hand

At the base of their backs. I called them

Old, and they must have been; they’re all dead

Now, dead and in the earth I once tended.

The loneliest people have the earth to love

And not one friend their own age—only

Mothers to baby them and big sisters to boss

Them around, women they want to please

And pray for the chance to say please to.

I don’t do that kind of work anymore. My job

Is to look at the childhood I hated and say

I once had something to do with my hands.