EXIGENT

even at ease, here, at this cafe,
where, after years I still expect
her to blow through
black curls tight and purposefully prim, her,
because, even in these lee seasons,
she’d be too pressing for now, too important
to begin with, but coy enough to invite for a ride along
but, no, thank you, this ain’t about her, but how,
in this post ferocity
I’ll continue working beside society’s mechanations
how I’ll stand without protest
and that the irony of it that grips me more
and rivets me deeper than any of my
former battle days and jungle nights
is the imperative of work, as to even supplant purpose,
work, like it always was but now there is
nothing left.