WEBVTT

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Sometimes I wish I wasn't,
I hadn't been right

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about these things.

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But I'm afraid this has
only proved to be more true,

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and the metaphor of
addiction more true

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than I even thought
at that time.

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I'm going to slip this in.

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It's a rare combination of
a work poem and a love poem.

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It's called, "After Work".

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The shack, and a few trees
float in the blowing fog.

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I pull at your blouse, warm
my cold hands on your breasts.

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You laugh and shudder, peeling
garlic by the hot iron stove.

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Bring in the axe,
the rake, the wood.

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We'll lean on the wall against
each other, stew simmering

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on the fire as it grows
dark, drinking wine.

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