TRYING TO BE GOOD

She used to handle crystals and cards and wear robes and shit.

Like that was a way to get it done.

“Liberation” she said.

“That’s what I’m after”

As she was wiping down the sinks in the men’s bathroom.

I don’t know how she can think about any of that doing what we do.

We get here around midnight,

Do all the bathrooms on the 10 floors, then the garbage, then we vacuum,

How she has time to go home and think about anything at all is a wonder to me.

“Liberation” how’s that supposed to work?

So I don’t have to work anymore is that it?

This work. This cleaning. It’s what I got. It makes me happy to see my kids face in the morning,

And my husband as he moves off to work.

It’s fine. We’re fine. I’m tired. But everyone’s tired. The Indians were tired.

I’m sure the meditators were tired too, from all that concentration and shit.

They don’t look more rested than me.

It’s just living. Living, trying to be good. It’s tiring.

That’s all.