It was literature class, reclined

       in the stretchy black chair,

             thinking about work.

                                                  Thinking

       about the way it appeared 

              in my dream. Again,

                                                  of the heavy burden.

That burning bitterness.

       The crescendo, the falling, all of it.

                                                  You, the feeling of work.

Someone who never came

       can never leave, 

which is to say that, in many ways, you

                                                  will never leave me.

But I am sick of you, infiltrating my life.

        I am sick of dreaming

               of your lips, parting

                         to say nothing but to breathe.     

Oh, to take in this world

        and exhale. To do it all 

               without thinking of work.

But it would be silly to imagine a butterfly too fearful

        to emerge from a cocoon. Similarly,

in order to live with sanity,

        I will teach myself to fall in love with

                                                  you, the feeling of work.

No more will I feel the weight

        of the heavy burden.

As I ripen, work

                                                  will leave me thinking.

And with my thoughts, I will dress the idea of it 

        with clothing too delicate for calloused hands,

                and adore it from every angle.

I’ll make it my ambrosia, 

        while old folks hammer the little humanity left in their souls

                and lie about their happiness

                        with a glass of whiskey in their hands.