Out of Work

Written by John Grey

Lust, avarice, masturbation,

I’ve done the lot.

I’ve even coveted.Just look at my face.

The coveting leaps out at you

especially if you’re someone I want

or want to be.

Other people are out in their fields,

breaking up sod, planting seed,

bending their backs so far

their heads are in between their knees.

Or they’re down in the dungeons

of those mega-tall office buildings,

like clerks out of Dickens,

denuding their wrists

writing longhand with feather pens.

And I can be slothful,

grab more than my share of chips from the bowl,

sit back in my couch

with the TV blasting

and refuse to give up the remote.

And here comes the postman on his rounds

on a hot sweaty day.

And the guy in the brown UPS truck

with a package that he has to lug

to my front door

but I can open at my leisure.

These days, it’s all my leisure.

I’m thumbing slowly

through the classifieds,

more excuses for my unbridled jealousy.

I could sell insurance..

I could work on cars.

I could nurse an old lady.

Through the window,

I can see my neighbor in his driveway,

briefcase, ironed shirt, neat slacks,

on his way to work.

So much to hate

but, for now, he’s hate’s best offer.

Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Kestrel and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Caveat Lector, Prism International and the Cider Press Review.