I can march on a picket line
in front of God’s Home Office
or sing: brother can you spare a dime—
trudge up and down the avenue
looking for work— anything will do,
a shoeshine box, or dishwashing hands
ready and able to perform God’s work.

After taking care of everybody else
the good doves in my soul fly away.
Now vultures abound rattling windows—
I won’t let them in or give them a crumb.

Maybe it’s time to retire—play golf in Miami,
or sail around the world on the Queen Mary.
My Shrink advises I’m suffering from burnout,
and it time to stop working and have some fun.

But my soul has become a stubborn old coot
who can’t stop shaving and showing up for work,
like a dancer who has duende and can’t stop dancing
long after drums and castanets can no longer be heard.