This peculiar work.
This lowest legal wage.
Paid to help people play.
In the snow.
Nowhere to go.
But down hills high speed.
Not for me.
Though I will gladly take pay to keep it an open albeit precarious possibility for them.
Buried in layered flannel and rainbow goggles.
I like to imagine behind them they see the world
like a horsefly gushing by trees bristled hairs in loose whipping tails.
Ears twitch and break brittle as ice.
Hit the landing just right.
Broken wings and six shattered legs lie crumpled in a pile.
Rise from the white ashes.
Clearly this whole thing is no more than a peculiarity.
It’s just. They keep on insisting on calling it work.