8.17.2013

The Right to Work

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The thirsty wood underneath the brush
If only it could know quite as much
As I think it must remember and so
I rush and rush towards the goal
Each stroke quicker until I forget
If the stain was thicker or thinner yet
We quite suffer as minor indignities
What never was in our histories
But a pleasure of life, and what is
So yearning for strife, yet so amiss
The immigrant and the expatriate
Had quite a slant; such was their state
Of mind; and did their children find
To understand their struggle in kind?
Or having not run from famine and war
From the face of the gun, to be but poor
Did they not see that suffering
Is relatively about the buffeting
Of circumstance and did they well
To take the chance to give them hell
Their children, is just what I mean
Or surely then, from them is seen
What was given not, and did they guess
About man's lot, his redress
Is not a duty to work or a right
Though certainly he must quite
Earn his bread, with each stroke
Of the hammer's head, or the stoke
Of coal-fire, the falling pick
The radio-wire, the ruddy brick
All these stand, having come late
Are not of man's intended state
Which requires not technique or artifice
What draws him away from vice
Both fast and feast and glory old
Both war and peace and victory hold
More importance than my working rush
Or the thirsty wood beneath the brush.

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