Working in the dark like the old wheel that I am
I wiggle through the morning

I go flying off the spinning plate into the winter day
I walk from point to point, making myself known,

trying to help where I can

At this wage I am a peasant
I am no one’s wife in this city of cool men
I’m the glossy thimble, the rugged tip,
the one who brings herself to the bed

Sleep is a crash
A power nap for failures

That’s what my head blubbers when I am ragged

I’m impressed by the daily blue winter light
The sweet harmonic days, the refreshing weather
I go the extra mile

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)