When toil began

I.

We were children having fun,

racing across the dusty recess yard, perspiring

behind the swing sets,

damp hair dancing as we listened to wind rush by our ears;

our young hearts slowed quickly once we settled down.

I said, “I won,” and you called me a liar.

Soon we were wrestling in the matted grass,

muscles contracting, school uniforms filthy.

Sweating was easy when toil began.

 

II.

Ambushed by adolescence,

we were started on the fry station,

the tile floor perpetually slick with popping grease,

and worked to show just enough proficiency

without becoming indispensable there—

lest we prolong our tenure making potato spears uniformly stand up—

before being moved to the drive-thru window.

We spent our entire paychecks on the trappings of our desire:

a genuine NFL regulation-size,

CONAIR Salon Pro,

Yamaha 80-watts-per channel,

Journey Escape on vinyl.

Toil was our liberation.

 

III.

We were twenty-four,

and called ourselves men,

arriving on time,

sitting too long at desks,

ambitious to have our bylines noticed,

prior to Google’s ubiquity,

surfing the Internet on company time

to win recognition as the day’s top curator,

nevertheless, doing actually work long after

the sun sank on a summertime day,

because we had no families to go home to

and drinks were served until 2.

Sleuthing out the facts, transcribing interviews,

prospecting for “good quote,”

spending recklessly dining out,

yet, always paying rent on time—and she knew that.

Toil was our path.

 

IV.

We were expecting,

taking inventory over needs and necessities,

changing diapers, attending play dates,

shouldering responsibilities.

“We’re meeting out for drinks, can you join us?”

No interest.

 

V.

We were company men,

supervisory,

raises and promotions,

furnishing rooms with zero down, 12-month,

no interest,

an entire week at the beach once a year,

and pride crept in.

Toil was our self-worth.

 

VI.

They call me Pappy, she is now Mamou.

Retired from the toil, our silo is full.

The family home echoes

between their brief visits.

I recall kissing her goodbye each morning for decades

to begin my daily exile.