He slumps there, in a chair leaned back,
Feet on the railing of a rambled shack
A rare beer escape in one hand,
Henry V in the other, Shakespeare
Calling my father, must answer no,
With grinding teeth he spat anger,
Frustration at pedaling all the no not todays
Up and down and all around, a rosary.
How the body aches the dream of teaching,
Aching for English history calling, pray,
A professor possibly, could’ve,
Would’ve at some university should’ve.
But always the hang-up, how everything
Comes down to money making a living end.
