Labor Was
Labor is
Labor is the weed-free lawn
The tilled soil,
The varnish that holds
A warm cup in the morning
Labor is the shelf
That holds our books
Our pictures, postcards, and dusted trinket
Woodwork that remembers dreams left behind
Labor is the PFAS in the valley
The heat that cooks skin
The hands that grab dates and almonds
It is the plane that takes us away
Labor is the the bedbound
Who fell “by the wayside,”
Whose fingers type the lives now gone
The forgotten and who choose to forget
Labor is the one who stops
Who leaves behind the gut for the heart
Finds a soul in others
And chooses unkempt ground for love
Labor will be
The cosmos that brighten the skies
The titillating Mars and sharp Venus
The sun’s rays, channeled through condensers, coils, steam, and bone
Labor is
The unkempt garden
The debts to pay debts
The third cold this year
Labor was
The ones who warned
Comforts and pleasures
The unnamed earth
The social murder