Keeping Up by Rich Smith
I look dumb looking down
at a smartphone,
but that’s where you live.
It’s a little troubling to see us
evolving into human resources darlings,
careful to be seen saying
work is work in fact I work to work.
As if our clean shirts were laundry.
As if the trees were firewood and not large
sturdy flowers. The sun skips across
the painted land, tossing gold and silver everywhere,
and that’s all I’m ever trying to do. Sure it’s insane
to repeat the same process and expect a living wage
but nothing feels saner than sitting here
and writing to you on my phone,
accusing loose leaves of drunkenness
and happiness, doing no work
except for hoping you might join me
with news of a cloud.