A Prayer for the Wobs

We are broken men now,
though it may be that we always
have been. And lying drunk in gutters
has never been our true calling,
but we’ve done it enough
when not holed up in living rooms,
union halls or jail cells.

Joe Hill was a saint
but never an angel.
(Or was it the other way
around?)

Yea, though I toil endlessly
under hateful fluorescence
for low wages and no appreciation,
sweat stinging eyes,
I will fear no bosses.

The picket line stretches like the Rio Grande
but in drought. Somehow history
is forgotten again, and the great
Carved Earth is hidden under
a thick blanket of black ash,
and no rod and no staff
provide comfort.

Thou annointest my head with liquor
And my cup is never full enough.

2005