The Union

drag and bump rhythm

of suitcase wheels,

tires on concrete seams

and overpass beams,


for the night miles

that i companioned

with the other half of my self.


yet i travel solitary,

but in good company

as the shuttle driver said to me,

“funny how so many of ya

fuss about bein’ given a ride,

rather haul yer stuff along side.

tough lot ya single brides,

loss of half yer pride,

prolly works fer ya?

let me do fer ya”.


i slid beside

to listen to his story,

vanity and glory,

and the politics of crime,

when without chagrin

for the sins,

he grinned, “life ain’t all fun

but the best thin’ they ever done

was ta putt’m ta work.


everybuddy gotta work, mam.

every man

gotta do his own work“.


The worst form of betrayal is when a woman keeps a man from his labor, physically and spiritually. That clarity and conscious light is a gift given with which she can bring forth a new world. This truth is on the inside, and mirrored on the outside.

©M.G. Iannucci 2018

Art: The Last Bus to Keswick by Jim Taylor

4 thoughts on “The Union

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