Sonnet #299

I mow the grass, and grass regrows, and grows

We dust the furniture of course, we must

And sweep, But next week there’ll be more dust

And I plucked the rose and placed in vase but the rose

Will wilt the week away, and die as plain

To be replaced again by next week’s rose

And all the furnishings will wear in my repose

Where my body presses down and causes strain

We wear down, we wear down, we wear all the way

In factories workers walk into fire dressed like spacemen

At home they shower off the sweat and hear radios play

The music plays a song and plays that song again

That brilliant singer travels to another town to play

And every week we raise a god from death in bread and wine