For Arthur Knowles
On balance, we haven't much to give,
ground out of us more like, in shards of
labour we hardly call our own,
sold on like hand-me-downs, used up,
withered on the bone,
flesh weeping out of us like tears.
And when we're wrung limp,
lacking even the will to worry
more about others than ourselves,
seeing no sense in community,
we're left, allowed to grieve for the loss
darkening each corner of our lives.
So what we have is what we have to give.
We bend, we laugh, we work, we weep, we live.