Without Work

Without work
I’m still
Sure work will come

It always does
Like flu

Expects to find
A lung
Or drought

The desultory
Ember

In the stove-
Lengths

And the leaves
I hope
For accident

To be bowled
Down pat
Dry sent home

Where work
Will wait

For me
Expectantly

Behind
The eaves
And wave its

Broken plank
At me