— unpredictable thoughts

What Work Is

We stand in the rain in a long line
wait­ing at Ford High­land Park. For work
You know what work is — if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
For­get you. This is about wait­ing,
shift­ing from one foot to another.
Feel­ing the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blur­ring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fin­gers,
and of course it’s some­one else’s brother,
nar­rower across the shoul­ders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stub­born­ness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted wait­ing,
to the knowl­edge that some­where ahead
a man is wait­ing who will say, “No,
we’re not hir­ing today,” for any
rea­son he wants. You love your brother,
now sud­denly you can hardly stand
the love flood­ing you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home try­ing to
sleep off a mis­er­able night shift
at Cadil­lac so he can get up
before noon to study his Ger­man.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wag­ner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoul­ders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done some­thing so sim­ple, so obvi­ous,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jeal­ous or even mean
or inca­pable of cry­ing in
the pres­ence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.