Bygone Days
His day job was dragging sticks along chain link fences
like a workman committed to drudgery, each pass
undertaken with an eye towards redemption,
as if burying sticks was left to those of lesser brains.
Long ago, his days were spent digging holes,
like a backhoe driver with mindless intent,
but all that was achieved were dirty nails
and being chained for misbehavior.
And then there were the months of ball fetching,
like an obedient servant, who sat quivering, until
a voice said 'fetch,' followed by his dash across
the yard, a skidding stop, and a trotted return.
Tomorrow maybe he'll switch from stick dragging
to late night singing to the moon like a loveless
teenager high on an illicit, windows will open, voices
will scold, but he'll finally have found his calling.
Author: Peter A Witt
Photo: Daniela Kalwarowskyj on Unsplash
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