The Work that Sets You Free

It’s quitting time. The tireless whistle has blown.
MYOB, I say to the horse fly waiting to drag me home.
I give him a tip: I say midnight’s black airbrush
Paints the breath of those waiting for death.
I’m buzzing, he says, as we crash through the cemetery.
That’s the gentle contrail of the jet as it evolves
Into a boomerang snapping back into my hand.
I’ve been digging ditches my whole life long.
I’ve been drinking from Anonymous Creek.
Where’s my TV dinner? I ask of the screen.
The living room is without light: the azure curtains
Move like a widow’s slip in the breeze.
Just as my head hits the pillow to sleep
I am awakened by another whistle: this one digital
And controlled by my own shaking hand.
Back to the shovel, I say to the horse fly.
I let him bite me down under on my lunch break
On the jobsite of antiquity which is killing
The undertaker’s walk-in business.