The Greatest JobA Poem by Bethany Woody
I hold a job
Both envied and despised.
Yet the credentials it affords
Are often disguised.
The hours are horrendous
With twenty-four hour shifts.
The benefits hidden
Behind emotional rifts.
There are no sick days
Or vacation time.
And the pay I must tell you
Should be a crime.
In the list of my duties
Some are not so great.
But in the end
My title is top rate.
I’ve been a nurse
A time or two or four.
And with the brush of a gentle kiss
Hurts are no more.
I’ve played at psychology
And mended broken hearts.
I’ve created masterpieces
In the macaroni arts.
I’ve built towering castles in the sky
From no more then blocks made of wood.
And been the law of the land
When no other could.
I’ve been the best of storytellers
Authoring great books.
I’ve been a chef
Who anything can cook.
I’ve been a taxi driver
Running here and there
A waitress to bring
A feast of appetizing fare.
I’ve been a file clerk
And handled papers of import.
Although some say to change the world
Takes more then a book report.
I’ve been an accountant
Stretching each dollar to the cent.
And like any executive
Every dollar wisely spent.
I’ve washed, dried, folded, and pressed
More clothes then I can count.
But all was done with a love
That knows no amount.
I’ve been a janitor
Cleaning room by room.
Been a maid of top performance
When wielding a broom.
It takes a great deal
To understand computers and IT.
But I can fix them
With as much alacrity.
Control, alt., delete
And maybe a reboot
All work to make
A problem most moot.
I’ve been waste management,
A masseur and CEO.
But each of these titles
Is bland to me you know.
It only takes one little word
I promise no other.
And everything makes perfect sense
When a child calls you Mother.
© 2009 Bethany WoodyFeatured Review
Reviews
|
Stats
203 Views
1 Review Added on July 26, 2009 Last Updated on July 27, 2009 AuthorBethany WoodyAtlanta, GAAboutThis is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,- The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty. Her message is committed To hands I cannot see; For love of her, sweet .. more..Writing
|