A season by the sea

desolate shores slip
sand beneath toes
as the fisherman’s wife
digs for clams

Clock Out

evening wind scatters
the humid traces of mid-noon
pouring into the streets
men loosen their ties

Home

Home is built on the backs of people
Each brick and mortar paid for by years
Of laboring and amassing experience and wealth
As a child I only saw a comfortable den
Not knowing all the work that came before

Burnout

The grayness washes the world
Into a monotonous litany
Of work, eat, and sleep
Day follows unending day
Wrinkles deepening;
Labor to live or live to labor
They are uninspired mirrors of sameness