the slotted spoon they issued you
on that first day to empty the
moat of tears surrounding the castle
is all that you have left now
of a job impossible to
do right.
the golden winch for a golden well
that never filled with water but you
kept on drawing up pails of
emptiness dutifully.
oh how will they evaluate you
my well-spent child of fairytales.
go out to the forest.
bring your own black bread.
in your shoes of pearl,
tread on the rainbow shell
of the mollusks who have moved on.
maybe they'll never hire you
mary angela douglas 16 september 2013
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