In every town the laborers stand
single-file for nearly a mile
waiting to be chosen that day
for any kind of work, while I
look on from outside of the elements,
humming through a smooth train
to a daily destination where the world
waits to clap when I discover it -
in return I must be patient
for the discoveries of others, for whom
I must clap as if I need that
for myself - perhaps I do,
the right to speak is given when you listen,
the right to act when you can prove you can stay still,
you give directions when you learn to take them -
this, not the products that we grow,
is the work - waiting like the laborers
to earn the right to sweat,
for we would turn over all the topsoil
if we had the choice, and not
recognize that all things have a right
to sit in the sun and grow - equally -
even that fat, wide-flapped leaf
that believes it's only qualified to rise
if it blots out all the light in the sky.
