What the Job Costs

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.