told me once when he was about
34
that he didn't
want to work
for money.
he was above such labor.
he didn't want to waste
his life
on mundane
tasks at some job
he had
no interest in.
he was creative
an actor, a singer, a dancer.
no factory work for him.
no office,
no construction
job, or trade.
he'd been living on the west
coast for
sometime now,
a mother
nearby,
a girlfriend who didn't
mind working
and paying
for all they had.
i cringed
and thought about
his college tuition down
the drain.
i stared at my hands,
worn
from 40 years of work,
cuts
and calloused.
curled with the tools i held
onto,
hoping that work would
never end.
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