Best Workhome Poems
The hours are long and they pass slow.
The signs of fatigue begin to show.
It is one hard way to make a days pay.
Still I force my body to obey.
Cold and tired, I miss you.
The rain and the mud, I just trudge through.
I force my body not to stop.
Even with muscles tight and joints pop.
I’ve trained myself to stay awake through the night.
I’ve learned how ignore a back that’s tight.
I’ve learned how to not feel the cold nipping at my nose.
So I work on until that five o’clock whistle blows.
Then I stand tall on aching feet.
Smiling because I know you’re there at home,
Just beneath the sheet.
Because when my night is done,
I’ll be home to you, just before the rising sun.
And even the when the worst of nights are through,
Theres a good morning coming home to you.
Sarah Comstock
9-15-2009
A HOME COOKED MEAL IS THE ORDER OF THE DAY.
A TAKE OUT MEAL WON'T DO.
A BOX MEAL IS NOT MADE FROM SCRATCH.
COLD CUTS ARE FOR LUNCH.
COME ON GIRL AND STOP PLAYING AND PUT
A POT ON THE STOVE ; AND GO FOR WHAT
YOU KNOW.
HOME COOKING IS WHY I MARRIED YOU.
SO DO WHAT YOU USED TO DO AND STOP
CRYING THE BLUES.I'M TIRED TO. I
WORKED ALL DAY LONG. I DESERVE A
HOT MEAL WHEN I COME HOME.THIS IS
ONE OF THE BENEFITS OF BEING MARRIED.
I KEEP A SMILE ON YOUR FACE.I DRESS
YOU WITH CLASS ; AND YOU NEVER LOOK
LIKE TRASH. PUT A POT ON THE STOVE;
BECAUSE YOUR MAN IS COMING HOME.YOUR
HOME COOKED MEALS ARE MADE FROM LOVE.
THIS IS WHAT MY STOMACH IS THINKING OF.
A HOME COOKED MEAL IS THE ORDER OF THE
............DAY.........................
FRIDAY
Metro going home on Friday
Hell on wheels
Feet like lead and eyelids wilting
With weight of week’s work
Five interminable days
Of doing what the boss says
Every face in this train is like mine
I prop myself up to the door, close eyes
Sway in time with the train
Tracks suddenly change direction
Every soul staggers - an over- trained
Dance troupe well beyond rehearsal phase
At each station more worn faces forced
Into Faust’s bargain for youth again
Two days of rejuvenation,
Then the interminable five. Each station,
Each man, indistinguishable from the others,
As I am to them. At the end of the line,
Doors burst open. We trudge to the escalators.
Respite - we rise, pity ourselves,
Gaze unfocused at the floor,
Hunched over the moving rubber rail,
Adjusting grip every few seconds.
Rest one foot on the next step up,
One minute’s pause and eagerly
Look up to the surface lght -
Almost out of the pit
A prayer answered - “de profundis “
We’ve had enough,
We want to get home and shed the load,
Regenerate, renew contact with
Life above the grindstone pits.