The Work of our Hands
We check tickets and tick checkboxes.
A millimeter move of the index,
a few centimeters slides the wrist.
A hard day’s work?
Thousands of miles of neurons
have been traveled today,
But this is far from the ax-swing
of our fathers,
The fall of the maul in their ancestors’ hands.
The only sun we know builds the machines
we now call our farms.
Are we atrophying?
Or are we stronger than we know?
I can pass a test,
But could I win in a barfight?
2007-04-13