Think Nothing Of It

My first job

Was to clear away

A mountain of concrete

That accumulated.

 

I chipped with a pick

Making sparks

With the tip

Of the sharp, pointed prong.

 

After two days

A bird could have made

A greater impression.

 

But somehow, someone noticed my struggle,

Coming over to lever

The lot off the ground,

And into a barrow.

 

I should have started at the base.

I shouldn’t have blunted the pick.

They said: Think nothing of it.

 

First published in Iota 45, Autumn 1999