They pay me for my hands and get my back,my mornings, and the slow give of my knees.I signed for wages; they collected these —the small, uncounted things I can't get back.
I used to draw. I don't remember whenthe pencils moved into a drawer to stay.I tell myself I'll take them out someday,the way you tell a child you'll call again.
And still there's this: the paycheck clears, the rentis made, my mother eats, the lights stay on.I built a life on hours I can't un-spendand can't regret, though both of these are true.A man is what he trades his daylight to.I traded mine for yours. I'd do it, too.
About the sonnetA fourteen-line poem, often built around a turn in thought partway through.
A sonnet has fourteen lines. Many are written in iambic pentameter and rhymed, though the rhyme patterns differ from one tradition to another. Many arrive at a shift, often called a volta, where the poem changes direction or sheds new light on what came before.
The shape Fourteen lines, usually in iambic pentameter, with a rhyme pattern that varies by tradition.
Listen for Fourteen lines, and the moment the poem turns to look somewhere new.
4 poems in this form →@dawit
Works the night shift so someone else's daylight gets easier.
7 poems · 3 readings received · 4 written · 1 follower
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