The Job of Delivering Phone Books
The office was a creeper van
My mates were old and youthed
Worn out by life, cantankerous
Tattooed more than toothed
We placed the books in plastic socks
With frozen hands and feet
And tossed them on the icy stoops
Way up and down the street
By end of day my bones would ache
Raw shoulder from the strap
A walking corpse with empty head
I yearned to take a nap
It was not long before I knew
Don’t take me for a snob
The yellow pages weren’t my thing
Though thankfully, a job
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