she said,
my mother told me,
tell them to, ‘stick the job’
i thought,
that hardly equips you for life

how much have we seen
how much have we felt
we have clung to tress
on which the snow now must melt

they ride racehorses
i clamber onto foals
they dominate premarked courses
i am never sure of goals

when push comes to shove
it is,
not enough
others need to shine

it is all there,
a psychological mess
that gets pushed around rooms
from people blaming you
to people wrongly framing you

the nature of my beaker
but even i find corners –
comforting –
satisfying –
others’ seek glory