Worrying About Money, Redux

Pick up a sledge hammer blade

mounted on a duct-taped handle.

Grip the stick like a ball bat

with fissures in the wood from work-wear

parting it. Drive this heft overhead

and down, overhead and

down from shaky shoulders

into something thick and stone,

entrenched lime boulders caught

in the way of clearing, an obstruction

from building something

more useful, more appealing.

Make splintering shards

from the gravid blade. Each stubborn fist of stone

shatter, wallop them down into tangled grass

so green all is lost in fecundity.

Drop to hands and knees,

the splash of sweat still reddening your face

in panic. Attempt to gather together

each distressed fragment,

to cultivate smooth ground for construction—

such task makes failure, less-than-pebble.

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