I look at my hands they are brown as a farmer’s, this pleases me
although I have no tractor or a mule. A workman’s sturdy hands,
all socialists should have hands that have harvested carrots.
I flex the muscles of my upper arms, see the faint movement
like mice moving under thawing spring snow. Glorious vanity to
think I used to do 100 press ups a day only because I lived in fear
of being a weakling. I think of sex, and sadly conclude I never was
a great lover, when the act was done I reached for the book I was
reading. Yet women liked me because I was not pretentious, they
also tried to domesticate me as I had an affinity to walk my own
way and often ended up in seedy bars. The squalid side of life has
always mystified me, why does a person choose a road that leads to
ruin and hardship? I have always been lazy, strenuous effort will not
touch me. But I would like to have my muscular arms back.
