I spent what light Saturday sent sweating 
And learned to cuss cutting grass for women 
Kind enough to say they couldn't tell 
The damned difference between their mowed
Lawns and their vacuumed carpets just before 
Handing over a five dollar bill rolled tighter 
Than a joint and asking me in to change 
A few light bulbs. I called those women old 
Because they wouldn't move out of a chair 
Without my help or walk without a hand 
At the base of their backs. I called them 
Old, and they must have been; they're all dead 
Now, dead and in the earth I once tended. 
The loneliest people have the earth to love 
And not one friend their own age—only 
Mothers to baby them and big sisters to boss 
Them around, women they want to please 
And pray for the chance to say please to. 
I don't do that kind of work anymore. My job 
Is to look at the childhood I hated and say
I once had something to do with my hands.