sleep came home late and sheepish
and, to be quite honest, reeking of bourbon,
tripping over footstools in the dark
and, forgiving, eager, i took it
into my arms as i would you
but, asp-like, it coiled and struck
pillowtears leading invariably
to fitful dreams of toiling in fear
i awoke not having rested
but rather having paid heavily
for every single moment spent
for even in sleep i cannot stop
being who i have been, always
a conscientious laborer
bent on getting my hands dirty
in a time that sees that not as having worth
but servile arts remain art nonetheless
every callus, scar, and thorn embedded
i wear them all with as much humor
as i can summon in these days
hoping to find the match, some lazy afternoon
in your own dear battleweary hand.
if not now, later, then?
carry on as you were.
i’ll be where i am
doing this given work
in quietness not my own but His
and, at the last, in joy.