the work

I've caressed sultry women
to the sound of the temptations
at dawn
but you're an
aretha girl,
to you I am the
laborer who
works
for your lips.

I am a journeyman
by trade.
I go
where the work
goes.
if only you would fire me
I could sleep in city,
alone.

but no! a man must
eat and to pay the grocer
he must work!
I will die laying tracks
to taste your lipstick
once more.
I will appeal to
the union
"the conditions are
unsafe!"
but tomorrow,
I will perspire in the sun,
for the work.