52 - A Tale of Babel (Book 2-II)

Now I realize there’s only so much to write

About a loathsome man alone in bed,

Not even in the bed, but on the floor right of the door,

But I tell because in those listless days of peace,

All life, romance, and glory seemed to be

In the inward thought of man

Where fantasy could take its place in front

Of a reality so grey and dull.

 

So much as the dignity of man

May be measured by the dignity of woman,

In Minnesota state, the Volsung land,

Much the women walked as man,

And it was even much the same

Outside of my home state.

The Communists had won,

Everything to Marx and Hell blew past the gates.

Every man and woman were an abomination.

What else was I too do but wait?

 

For this, I laid on the floor

Because outside of God I had no will to work

For if my better part could just

Take care of their own self,

Then I may as well hang up my suit

As Gramps would hang his gun and sword

If girls could fight their wars.

Me though? The draft had not come yet,

So I laid there on the floor

Fantasizing of a life

With many kids, my house, and wife.

But when the dream got too bright,

I made sure to remind myself

One hundred years ago I’d leave for war

To leave those kids and wife

With a father who had died.

Then what would become of the wife?

The wife would have to work

Unless one of the sons was grown,

But if all the kids were girls what then?

They’d have to marry or find work.

Then if worst came to worse one hundred years ago,

The girls would have to find a house and—

 

I opened my eyes. I quit the thought.

I chastised myself.

I should’ve been grateful for this life,

That there was work for a girl to do.

I knew better than anyone I knew

How one may use the poor.

Love bought, love which was not.

I almost forgot.

I was a worm who’d considered

Making use of men’s daughters.

I deserved nothing I prayed for.

 

I owned a house of three floors. I inherited it.

I ran a business selling pretty words.

On the clock, in an office.

In my home, on computer, on paper.

I should have been grateful enough to be alive,

To have been given more time to right my life

Which was not depressing nor desolate

But only made Hell through my own mind.

I had to quit acting like a woman,

Waiting helplessly for war to end.

 

Oro et laboras.

I prayed, but I still had to work.

From the floor I rose. The hour was still dark.

I sat in the corner of my room,

Smooshed between the bed which I would not sleep on

And two bookshelves pushed against the wall,

One behind, one to my left.

I had a computer, a printer, a dresser—

It was all just a normal bedroom

In a cookie-cutter suburban house.

From the bookshelf on my left,

I grabbed a little rosary.

That night I prayed for better days.

Work, whatever the work was,

Had to be for tomorrow on Saturday.