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