Mealtime hauls with heavy-lifting now:
tines weighing out as Pharaoh’s pitch
in hay before the pyramids are cast;
and now it takes two eyes to gaze on her, un-
hungry, wanting nothing but to close
with prisoned sleep; and now it is my own
two selves, two sons stalking me with
musts and always and the bore of fatherhood—
ah! ah! too much bread gone stale, papa
and not enough have you lifted the axe, the
hammer, or the pen to win the sun today,
not made the pyramid arise today—no.
oh, how they say life is a labor of love.
but sweet betrayers all, they have not sung
how love is the arduous labor of this life.