Graveyard shift
what work I do
is to get some money
but not so much that my pretty hands
come to grief
trepan my head
carrying about bad music
pierce this night
to let the plague out
Poems on the topic: work
Poems on the topic “work” on Poets.by.
Paper pusher
Lord I am all morning thin paper
and all afternoon work
which is no book to be
Hole-y
the perfect hole of a state
should please the Lord
sick with work
is a mind as free as the world
as the hole under my hand
the hole I find myself to be
Work song
business comes expressed
as opportunity
so that the sum is
no more than the sun dressed
in field dust
laid by a little rain
Bean counter
work is her bark
unhappy for the future
her thin hand
like a rose full of winter
our queen of accounts
Stuck
in amber I see
my whole study
of one binding business
before the evening
comes to try
man and ant
Administrator
papers grow upon my hands
and I am cold as a pear
or a captain of order
exempt from land service
but see how, void of method
the fox is wise at all times
Death of the amateur
I walk the streets with nothing
to do but think outside
I weather myself
so sleepy I cannot hold open my eyes
and must be buried
in some profession
Business as usual
our usual business
is sickness:
all the hurt
to all our families
a great feast of work
cards to the blind
Replacement worker
scab employed till I bled
a little too much
I have no company now
led a little too much
but I love serving the best
flowers in my garden
Middle manager
in walking sleep
I attend business better
than most thinking men
but would to God I were clear
as my own money
I stand for little
Vagabond
myself negligent of myself
I stop working
I shall leave myself bare
but singing
at the first sight of supper
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