A Good Position

This can’t be the designed state of things:

Leaving the only serene patch of this

tormented sphere in order to risk my life

among texting chariot-racers, only to

rush into the mine where I will pour

out the best of my hours and energies

to plump the wealth of someone who detests the lineage

of my name, enduring the emotional incontinence

of maladroits with their venom sacs

of backstabbery, choking down a hurried

snack and staring at the high careening

clouds while praying for Time Itself to speed

up, then back inside for more Masochism

With Benefits, finally paroled at the magical

time and then jackrabbiting my way back

to the only place and the only

people who matter, where I feel my battery

drain the minute I sit down, nothing

left to give my family after having

channeled it all for those to whom I should

be so grateful that I have a job,

and I stare at whatever’s before me until

my lids lower and my wife reminds me

it’s beddy-bye time, and so shuffle off

and fall down for a few restless,

rest-less hours until time to groan

my way to a standing position and prepare

my body to again leave the only serene

patch of this tormented sphere, but at least

I can look forward to retirement if I

don’t die first, because I trust in the Lord

of Social Security, having burned incense

to him since I was ten and six summers

upon this bleak plain of cycling waste.