Vocation

In the light of vocation,
I ponder you, Dad;
and my own ambitions
so carelessly wrought.
With a tilt at the windmills
and a grind for the rest;
in a picaresque sleepwalk
we sold our youths for small aspirations,
we pawned our dreams for a paltry stash,
we laundered our excuses in the public fountains,
we've both been a wetback for the steady cash.

Oh Dad,
what wonder this working life;
where artists are squandered in ruthless sweatshops;
honest toil bartered like matches and baubles
by tyrants and thieves who gloat in their boardrooms.
The circle is very nearly closed.

And now, in my forties, I finger these tokens
of manhood, dignity, health, and repose.
Well I'm burning my rule book
and ignoring the umpire.
This robot is pulling the pin.
I'm buying my dreams back
at five times the price,
and have just ceased to worry
if I'll ever fit in.