tells me that he doesn't want to work
just for money.
the time card into the clock,
the apron,
the name tag, a bloodied
smock.
he wants
a higher calling, one
of art
and performance,
with pen in hand,
he sees himself as
a renaissance soul,
a new age song and dance man.
why should he push the plow,
dig the earth.
plant seeds,
bent over on hands and knees
in the boiled sun.
why should
he drop nets
for his crust of bread
into the sea?
work is for the dumb, the lazy,
the uneducated.
work is for fools, not for the talented
and anointed men
like me.
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