First Day

Monday is my first day
back
my return to the workforce
my act of rebecoming a member of
“productive society”
and I’ll be fine,
I am nothing but hypercompetent,
highly productive,
versatile,
a bringer of good culture,
accomplished;
I’ll wander to an office
that I’ll scarcely go to
and then work my
maybe-six-hours-a-day,
definitely-six-figures-a-year,
health-and-vision-and-dental-and-401k-and-stock-options-included,
might-be-able-to-buy-a-yacht-someday
job,
but I’ll still dread it.

I’ll dread it in the way
I dread the generic Sunday Scaries,
I’ll dread it because I do not
whatsoever
dream of labor.

I dream of the time
I drove my rented BMW
through the roasting, cloudless Southland,
the streets clear and trafficless in
the early afternoon,
to get ice cream with my best friend.

I dream of the time
I biked through crisp Portland air,
down to the water,
through the eastside,
trying to convince my friend
to buy a bike.

I dream of the time
I spent many a Tuesday evening
walking down Pasadena sidewalks,
hunting for tea,
hunting for answers,
hunting for company.

I dream of
endless blue skies and endless grey ones,
pouring sun and pouring rain,
pen and paper and brush and oil and shutter and film and cork and glass and knife and fork and coffee and tea
and wife and wife.

I dream of my wedding.
I dream of my love.
I dream of my friends.
I dream of the day
we have it all.

So Monday is my first day
of labor,
again,
but every day I do not dream of labor;
I dream of love.