the ones in myself can wait.
'Cause doing good for you
doesn't get you very far
if you're smugly sitting cross-legged
by yourself on someone else's lawn.
So I work for other people
asking them what else I can do.
Really, please give me one more thing,
A labor I can complete with love,
and certainty that the traces I leave
on a person or room when my fingers
aren't busied by their objects
will be more than they were when
they were with me. Or at least
longer lasting, not a thin veil
of wavering sensibility
that couldn't really affect anyone
unless it was keeping them from breathing.
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