I spent what light Saturday sent sweating br And learned to cuss cutting grass for women br Kind enough to say they couldn't tell the damned br Difference between their mowed lawns br And their vacuumed carpets just before br Handing over a five-dollar bill rolled tighter br Than a joint and asking me in to change br A few light bulbs. I called those women old br Because they wouldn't move out of a chair br Without my help or walk without a hand br At the base of their backs. I called them br Old, and they must have been; they're all dead br Now, dead and in the earth I once tended. br The loneliest people have the earth to love br And not one friend their own age—only br Mothers to baby them and big sisters to boss br Them around, women they want to please br And pray for the chance to say please to. br I don't do that kind of work anymore. My job br Is to look at the childhood I hated and say br I once had something to do with my hands.