Choreman

I am a born choreman.
In the book of records
I will be named ‘‘My brother’s
sweeper.’’ I follow instructions
on a daily work sheet and never
dream of a legacy from a rich aunt,
a winning lottery ticket,
the long shot at the races.
I sweat for my bread, debt
would leave me a hunchback
if I borrowed my supper. I even
haul away trash on my day off.
But I eat well, sleep soundly,
know a plain girl beds
as lively as a beauty.
I save my wages to build a house
large enough for a choreman
within call of folk whose unkempt lives
resemble their cluttered yards
and stables.