The Tender

The thing is, we tend to lose 

What tenderness we have

At the hands of a stable wage

These plans of ours to lift

Ourselves from breaks 

Of page and penitentiary

They splinter at the perfect

Section, the pinching line

That blunders by, unending

Until the lynch is pointed

And the sender’s sent

Back, broken in his tracks

A pity for each day of labor

It is not, in truth, the quitter 

Who is truly running scared