Covering
“… worm-farming, that thankless trade no one wrote back about, the quiet work for which you were born.”
— Mary Karr, “Worm-Farmer’s Lament,” The Devil’s Tour
Detached complit types will note the Fritz Lang feel
of grey commuters streaming underground
toward squalling trains and toil;
raise a brow at useless regs
– in case of riot, stay indoors –
resent the dowdy mode of dress.
They know.
But every creature has its shell.
Reviews and resumes elide the truth,
disclose no measure of the heart’s desire.
But grime does not make drudgery
nor practiced weekday face a lie.
Secretly Ironic 