I am coming
the second coming this year
preceded by my friends’ same
worn routine:

“When will you come?
Today? This hour?

In a month, or two,

We’ll have cold beer!
Maybe even a keg!

And will sit at your feet
listen to stories
of places you’ve been.”

I wish I could raise them
to their feet and shake each
calloused hand of those
that have remained to work
on the farms or in the plant.

Show them I am no better
because I’ve been at the
un-i-vers-ity, bein’ pointless
book l’arned while they’ve been
workin’ workin’ workin’
punchin’ the clock at 7 A.M.

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