Cleaning the gutters.
That’s what I’m good for;
slapping on dark blue plastic gloves
and shoving the entirety of my arm
down a cavernous tube,
searching for whatever crud lurks inside it.
Everyone else has real jobs;
hence, they’re too busy to strike up some form
of a fragmented session of spouting words,
possibly resembling a conversation.
Verbiage: that’s what their work requires.
Mine doesn’t, however.
Just a pale, wet, near-translucent arm reaching into the abyss.
Clench the strands of wet, detached brown hair,
that probably resided on someone’s scalp at some point.
Remove it from the gutter basket. Place it in the trash.
Clench the debris, and free the waterflow. Perhaps it’s boring,
but I feel meaningful sometimes when I open the gutter cover
It means no one will have to get their arms wet later
No one else will need to feel the same pain
And they’ll know why the eaves are so tidy
And the water flows so smoothly.
Thus, they can work like nothing happened,
as the cracks in the ceiling leak water onto my head.