Pecans cracking under the weight of the world,
and Chimney's left to fight the good fight against tyranny.
And Reni is still here, rapping on the brunt of the neglected woman,
who has no face, but for the bruises, and no name but for the statistic.
They feel like unpeople
less real than Atlas holding up the bough of the sky,
more ethereal than the stolen fire of Prometheus.
But I'm born from it all: the sky, the fire, the fist of the immigrant,
the gun of the lover, husband, father, mentor.
Charcoal leaves remain, shredded by a mower's blade.
And crimson hedge trimmings, glittering with the Fall dew,
and the sanguine spray from Eddie's cleft finger.
His contribution to the job; his payment?
Possibly. Were it given willingly, rather than taken,
forced by the circumstance of winter and fatigue,
smelling of Cheetos, tortillas and coffee.
Written after a long day of work, and a lot of bad news.