I spent what light Saturday sent sweating
And learned to cuss cutting grass for women
...
They sat on the dresser like anything
I put in my pocket before leaving
...
Jericho Brown is an American poet. In 2011, he was awarded a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship for Poetry. He was raised in Shreveport, Louisiana. He graduated from Dillard University, and from the University of New Orleans with an MFA, and from the University of Houston with a Ph.D. He taught at the University of San Diego until 2012, when he became a professor at Emory University.Previously he worked as the speechwriter for the Mayor of New Orleans. His poems have appeared in The Iowa Review, jubilat, New England Review, Oxford American. He serves as an Assistant Editor at Callaloo.)
Odd Jobs
I spent what light Saturday sent sweating
And learned to cuss cutting grass for women
Kind enough to say they couldn't tell the damned
Difference between their mowed lawns
And their vacuumed carpets just before
Handing over a five-dollar bill rolled tighter
Than a joint and asking me in to change
A few light bulbs. I called those women old
Because they wouldn't move out of a chair
Without my help or walk without a hand
At the base of their backs. I called them
Old, and they must have been; they're all dead
Now, dead and in the earth I once tended.
The loneliest people have the earth to love
And not one friend their own age—only
Mothers to baby them and big sisters to boss
Them around, women they want to please
And pray for the chance to say please to.
I don't do that kind of work anymore. My job
Is to look at the childhood I hated and say
I once had something to do with my hands.