It’s late afternoon
And the vintner gives his prognosis
For my noble disease.
The vines need pruning;
I need to cut back to stimulate new growth,
There doesn’t feel anything noble about it.
It feels like weakness,
No longer able to endure
The snap of a winter soil,
Or trying once again to push my roots down deep.
It’s where the best flavour comes from;
The noble struggle, he says.
I wonder what growth is left.
The harvest has more character now,
Less acidity, he says
Less vigour, I think.
Maybe I should pull the whole crop out
And just retire,
Drink someone else’s craft till I’m gone.
But I know I can’t,
It’s the only joy I have left.
The wind is blowing
Through the thoughts in my mind
As I offer thanks to the child
He’s laughing at the soap bubbles
Bursting in the light,
At the fireflies glowing at night,
And at the flickering lamp
That I’m reading by.
But most of all,
He’s laughing with me,
Laughing at this self
I take so seriously.
“You’re a racist,” he said. “And racists don’t get jobs here.” Tom swallowed. Nobody fucking calls me a racist, he thought. The interviewer started to put Tom's papers back into the brown manila folder. “And I’m gonna report you for discrimination,” Tom said. The interviewer laughed as he closed the folder. “You hate faggots,” Tom continued trying to force the point home. The interviewer smirked, “You haven’t got a leg to stand on.” “I’ll have these,” Tom said, and quickly took the papers and ran from the building. It had been two weeks since the interview with the faggot [...]