Little Red Song

This is not how it sits with me unseated
on the job, unsteady union
dues still and rising in a union lyric,
a criminal fountain pen, the
beginning I pricked
up
feeling put-down a
thought on the vagaries of labor
and all but you, imminent,
employable as ever one was,
as ever the income patterns under
swinging circles
knew themselves better when sung
in refrain (in unison); inevitable
the ridicule, the ineffective
labeling, the redundant
strain is as
their umbilical wont, yes—
sit and gripe someone else
to shift hardbound, collective morality;
Obfuscatory, unraveling acolytes
kau taued before a belittling, un-
pronounceable; I. Kant.