She stares with ill-disguised sympathy
at my work-worn hands fumbling for the right change.
I return her gaze with ease
as meticulously manicured fingers accept politely
two quarters, a dime and three pennies
A labor of love is not drudgery
though, at the glance of a passer-by
it consists of mundane and modest task.
There is more to domestication than meets the eye
offering a wealthy threshold for which I dare not ask
I will not judge you in your platinum halo
your painted eyes and stiletto stance
if you return the same.
How can I tell you that garden-soil is not dirt
and to dig in it is no labor of shame?
…but rather a work of unrequited wonder
as seed sprouts producing fruit and bloom
and beauty; the reward of toil.
Soon earth reclaims its solemn dues
and life returns to soil
Outside these walls of humble bliss
awaits a bombardment of decorated dust,
a ceaseless, bullish quandary
I return to quiet toil in thankfulness
amongst shovels, pots, pans and laundry
Okay, I confess…
It is with deflated enthusiasm with which I survey
The after-math of a week-end…
But I determine to find within its squalor, bliss!