A part of him welcomed the hard-morning punches,
and he clocked in gut-first to his duties in bunches.
The thought made his bacon.
The thought taught him wishes.
The thought wrought a First Thing
that then piled up the dishes.
A part of him flew from inside his lost clout,
then pronely retreated to a bone-lonely doubt.
The thought stacked his papers.
The thought brought him wishes.
The thought sought a birthing
that then burst from its stitches.
A part of him sat oddly apart from his peaces.
Where the grant diagnoses the wish’s diseases.
The thought’s unrelated to
The thought’s rotten missives.
The thought’s naught but Springing
That then dies where it misses.
A part of him sat in each part of the place
Each part apart and no parts face to face.