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Work Ethic

by Kevin T. McEneaney
Tue Jan 21st, 2020

Morning sunlight spearing a windowpane,

inspiring a round of tasks to do:

cleaning kitchen dishes, haul wood to the stove,

whose maw gobbles logs like a stack of tarts;

messages, written reports to compose,

clothes to clean with whittle, rattle, and slush;

all the mundane thig-a-ma-jigs with nuts,

nails, bolts, plethora of screws, and hammer

beat in my brain with peculiar echo.

I’m adroitly incompetent with most

of these tools, can’t even saw a straight line,

though I can put music in a writ line.

Yet the latter accomplishes but naught.

Little is achieved with a magic thought.