Late in the evening, I lean against the window of the train,
Warmed by the glancing bands of sunset.
The train is cold, full of suited prospectors on their phones
Panning for a better tomorrow.
The clean thought lines of my day stretch behind me.
This evening? Hungry managers have eaten my time,
I know I’ll be working.
I can taste the freedom that the gold I am earning will give me.
I can hear the music of my portfolio growing.
I can sense the shining nuggets hidden in the shallow stream,
The pyrite turning up in my pan just spurs me on.
Just one more step. Just one more push. Just one more day.
I’m proud of my life. Hard work is a challenge
Accepted and met.
But my body, my creativity–the tiny joyfilled child my soul recognises,
My companions, my capacity for bliss,
They live in an imaginary future.
Filled with time.
Sunday afternoon the sun slants across the surface of the desk.
Bound by duty, responsibilities call out to me.
I’m caught, trapped, in a net of obligations.
Time my most precious asset, spent devoted to
Someone else’s children.
This night is deep and full of strange noises–
Bats crying out, the creak of a branch scraping
Against the balcony railing, soft murmers of sleep.
Spirit rises up within as my relaxed body awakens–
Joyfull, alert, alive, vibrating with life force,
Almost– not quite– time for my alarm.
Later, dressed and ready, coffeed, combed, and smoothed,
I trundle my body towards the 9am meeting,
Glad when my bosses at ***** look at me and say
That’s right, Gill. 40 hours per week.
A fair days work for a fair days pay.