Shadows on his bootstraps again
Fingers through the laces again
He bleeds from cracked fingertips onto the wire
When he dies he hopes they hoist him on a pyre
So that he becomes smoke in the air
And his blood becomes the clouds that spill out into his mother’s garden
Each day the burden passes on anew
When the morning opens up, it spits shotgun-blast saliva dew
Makes him salivate as he drives by
Makes his son worry with wanton, frightened eyes
Circled and shrined in steel so that God doesn’t rewrite it
The words painted in the metal read clear
The best life for him is here
The best life for him is here
They tell him the best life for him is here
The work is back-breaking and platitudes
It snaps him over its knee
It is rough, scratchy, prickly, and hot, and it reeks
Where will they put his corpse if he collapses on his keyboard
And writes gibberish into the empty document with his nose
And everyone else thinks he’s asleep again
And they leave him there for weeks
The work is muscle bulging and exasperation
It keeps him running on empty
It is cold, sharp, knives, and metal taste and it’s cold
What if the snows let up and they can get some water
And he’ll drink from the canteen from the war
And his fingertips will trace the military seal
And he’ll crack his lips with a smile
The work is killing another with a gun
It keeps him from looking at his mother in the eyes
It is dull, vibrant, red, and split-brained
What if they find out that he was taught to like it
And they’ll hate his eyes even more
And they’ll never understand it
And he’ll think of how it was when the killing wasn’t commanded
The best life for him is here
The best life for him is here
They tell you the best life is here