Some Labor

I don't have much to boast of in the way
of clocking in at dawn and out at midnight,
grease in kitchens and bathrooms to clean,
chickens to pack into crates and trucks
or patients into gurneys. For a spell,
long ago, I taught toddlers and budding
ballerinas in the basement of a local hotel,
where mirrors ran along one wall and barres
along three. Small fingers clung to the wood
trying first and second position and plié,
except one day when one of the girls licked
the whole length out of boredom. And once,
for a summer, I sketched dresses for a seamstress 
who wanted more than hems and alterations: imagine 
women with hair swept up high in the style of the day,
their swan-like throats emerging from scooped or
plunging necklines. Cocktail skirts, beadwork
reflecting the light, some fantasy world where
no one had to worry about sweat or traffic
or overdue bills. There were times I wished 
I'd apprenticed to a sushi chef and learned 
to wield a sharp, clean blade, and times I wanted 
only to walk the marbled length of museum galleries, 
opening window after window on the centuries. 
What I know now came mostly from learning 
to sit still, opening books and letting language
take me out of myself and back again until I 
could find my way to some shore resembling 
knowledge, and there at last make my own fire.