the sky has not yet begun
its bruising; every morning
a new opportunity, another
chorus of reverent mourning.
soon i will layer my body and
foist it into the glisten of
coastal rainforest November.
i will drive a short while
to a home perched on the edge
of a berried bay, sailboats
tied to a moaning dock.
i will move thousands
of pounds of gravel,
two buckets at a time,
walking many miles as i skim
trails i months ago built,
with a fresh layer of
tread. we are encouraged
to believe, in this society, and
perhaps especially so as men, that
what we earn, our job, that
is our value: my value
is rubble, and a frozen crust
atop a gravel pile.
my value is a barking
back. my value is the demands
of poverty, cold hands
in a dark wood, an ocean
of oxygen, a forest of
trees gently accepting of my
exhalations, and silently
breathing back.
zakschafer.com 