The world likes me better as its servant.
Rejected as teacher. Abandoned as husband.
Belittled middle child. The bothered brother.
The rebellious one is shunned. But this defeated,
obedient walk of life, should I continue taking steps in its direction,
has only just begun. And hard work means hard shoulders,
and white skin flaking off palms.
The world prefers calm. Understanding.
Yes sir and yes ma’aming.
Using shovels to do the work of tractors.
Creaking knees like dented wheels,
a hard settling jar each successive revolution.
Evolution, from exfoliating fear of the grave to my neighbor’s slave,
and the world has really come out from its shell to watch me work.
Perceive me productive struggle. To burst my ego like a bubble.
And as, not after, I take, too step too far, they say, roll in those wings,
tuck in those long legs, forget charred ash cinder firepits,
or color wagging perched on dog feces.
Back to the cocoon with you.
Unless you’d like to work a spell.
I feel I’m better kept up, out of sight.
Playing servant to my self on the inside,
plowing fields in my mind, and cutting grass,
fast straight even and fast. When it is my time,
when I own it, this leaves the world weak,
gives up no illusion of control,
none sense of power.
But I bet I could scratch a smile onto any bitter face,
for ten an hour.