He's sitting on the toilet,
he's late for work again,
he's toiling in the blackened fields
to redress the sins of men.

The letters have stopped coming,
the pen-pal moved address,
the money he had been saving
somehow counts for less.

Mother is calling daily,
mother is sleeping in,
mother takes a pill for her dementia,
and another one for her skin.

Windows are for the sunsets,
windows are for looking out,
windows infer the world's existence,
and yet he is filled with doubt.

Doubt for the academics,
doubt for the pilgrims too,
doubt for days of greener grass
of which he has seen so few.

He's waiting in the orchard,
he's eating from the tree,
he's choosing freedom from superstition,
and he is striving to be free.