It is the same in each moment.
Sitting on a porch, with the breath of the
Caribbean spitting in your face. It mocked you,
just as this wind flats through
your window now.
There are men outside
fixing cars. Honest work, for meaning and money.
You write this, which might give you one,
but not the other. But somehow, you know
there is no choice. You need this, more than love,
food or air. But it is troubling, how some are called
to the solitary act of bringing the tiger to its cage.

.