The horror of a job is the horror of working
no matter what the age, the fashion.
The light and air calling, the sweet frosting
of the water and the crispness of the cloth
pulling open a cellar door to ample
things. These call and you twist
your neck, craning, deciding in that barge
is coming or going. No matter. The sweet
frosting of the water is outside. No matter.
Like the mustard caught in the crack
of your thumbnail. No matter.
The horror of a job is working–
no matter what time, all gone.
-David Breeden
