What is Work?

We remain in the rain in a long queue
holding up at Park. For work.
You realize what work is—in case you're
mature enough to peruse this, guess what
work is, in spite of the fact that you may not do it.

Disregard you. This is tied in with pausing,
moving starting with one foot then onto the next.
Feeling the light rain falling like fog
into your hair, obscuring your vision
until the point when you think you see your own sibling
in front of you, perhaps ten spots.

You rub your glasses with your fingers,
furthermore, obviously it's another person's sibling,
smaller over the shoulders than
yours however with the same dismal slump, the smile
that does not shroud the persistence,

The pitiful refusal to surrender to
rain, to the hours squandered pausing,
to the information that some place ahead
a man is holding up who will state, 'No,
we're not enlisting today,' for any
reason he needs.

You cherish your sibling,
presently all of a sudden you can barely stand
the adoration flooding you for your sibling,
who's not alongside you or behind or
ahead in light of the fact that he's home attempting to
rest off a hopeless night move
at Cadillac so he can get up
prior to twelve to ponder his German.

Works eight hours per night so he can sing
Wagner, the musical drama you despise most,
the most exceedingly bad music at any point created.
To what extent has it been since you let him know
you cherished him, held his wide shoulders,

Opened your eyes wide and said those words,
what's more, perhaps kissed his cheek? You've never
accomplished something so basic, so self-evident,
not on account of you're excessively youthful or excessively imbecilic,
not on account of you're envious or even mean
or then again unequipped for crying in
the nearness of another man, no,
because you don't realize what work is.