If a man can not earn his keep,
is he worth keeping?

If a man cannot make a living,
is he worth living?

If man cannot bake his daily bread,
how long can he live on water?

If he cannot write poetry anymore,
is he still a poet, or just formerly, a human?

If he cannot extract a profit, a sustenance,
from his labored endeavors,
why should others
endeavor to profit from him?

You who know
where your next meal
will be coming from,
write of cake and first love,
pastry poems,
sugared air,
go ahead

Those who are carried on
the backs of others,
what if you lose your grip,
your carrier slips,
are you at fearful, at risk of being just
a hanger-on or even crushed?

This is my poem of the day.

This is my poem of every day.

I do not speak of
fluff or self-amuse,

I count my blessings down,
from the top down,
till there are none,
zero is the summary of
a workman's substance,
his net production

My poetry,
deadly earnest,
as is life,
earnest,
hard and earned,
until it is not

Until it is no longer blessed,
and no one wishes to  purchase 78 rpm
memories