The day nine prompt at Poetic Asides is “write a work poem.” It was more fun to write about someone not working:
Old Gully was a piece of work,
that is to say, he never did any.
Maybe in his youth he’d toiled
and sweated with the best of them,
but that was all behind him now.
Labor consisted of hauling himself
out of bed, getting dressed, tucking into
the generous breakfast his wife
had been setting on the table
for the last forty years. Then Gully
drove to the nearest McDonald’s,
where cronies saved him a seat
at their usual table. They drank coffee,
swapped bull-crap stories, smoked
(this was back when smoking was allowed),
and laughed so raucously they startled babies
and drew the contemptuous glances of the mothers.
Back at the house, where paint peeled
from the porch posts, Gully’s wife mopped,
washed dishes, pulled weeds,
collected the stray roof shingle
each week when she mowed the lawn.
Sometimes, on a nice day, she sat
in the yard swing for as long as ten minutes.
Then she headed inside to make the lunch
Gully expected at noon
on his tray table in front of the TV.