Reynolds and Midway 48

                  Like a tiger in the cage
                  we begin to shake with rage - Rob Halford

Yes, of the feet, for fourteen hours I walked

those small square tiles and eyed the chalky grout

where seeds and grains of salt and flour and spice

would gather daily, in that concave space

that made the plane a grid. To get it clean

and keep it clean required the utmost care,

my eyes directed downward, spotting flecks

of contraband packed in the soles of shoes,

the tiny rocks and specks of matter dragged

in from the outside. This is pure defeat:

to do a task and know that one is conquered,

a tedious and nonproductive toil

they pay you for, but not enough. My heart

goes out to every soul who ever worked

in similar futility: To fill

a belly, and to have one's labor turned

to shit, to gratify the basic needs of Man

with little recompense and scant reward.

Reynolds and Midway stand aloof and yawn.

They stretch their wispy arms and laugh at me.

My brow is sheened with sweat, my back aches,

my feet are sore from walking up and down

and to and fro, my shirt and slacks are soiled,

my fingers puckered, over-sanitized,

my pockets filled with scraps of sugar packets,

bingo chips, squashed peas, kernels of corn

I pick up from the floor. Not just for Christ,

but for my own wellbeing, and my keeping,

O, yes, for Him, I kneel and bend my head,

I scrape and gather like a scavenger

among the table-legs and tattered chairs,

wheelchairs, walkers, in the stink of cheap

institutional food, the clink of cup,

saucer and plate, and flimsy silverware,

for love of self, for love of these I serve,

and which is greater, only Christ will judge,

and only Christ can know; for when I speak

I hurt, and when I kneel my spirit aches,

and when I bow I show my spine that once

was crooked, and I hide a crooked heart

that, though it overruns with honest love,

and pounds with joy to honor God and Christ,

is yet a catacomb of jealousy,

a house of loud pulsating pride and hope,

for one who loves not me, an echo hall

of vanity and lust, a red devil

flapping in rage. Screaming in rage,

sorrow, and pain, it beats its cage.

7.12.14