Sheaf

Are you starving yet?
Has your stomach
turned blue and black,
inside out with hunger?
Have you bruised
your back working
for enough just to feed
your children?
Have you tilled until
night fell, sweating
and swearing,
and in between the hell
of hay and grieving home,
consoled yourself
with an ancient hum?
Is your pen heavier
than a pitchfork,
paper rougher than
hot straw
between your hands?
No? It’s just a bill
you’re writing?
Huh. Go figure.
Go figure.

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