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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v080) (the March 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

Order this writing in the book (bound) Down in the Dirt poetry edition		order the 5.5" x 8.5" ISSN# book order the 8.5" x 11" ISBN# book

The Eighth Commandment

Ben Nardolilli

Nobody can believe
They get paid for what they do,
Because they know someone
Who can do it for free,
And they pray
That their bosses never find out.

The lawyer earns a living
By arguing, something
He knows his toddler can do,
And the bartender
Pours you a drink,
Even though both of you know
That you can do it yourself, for now,
While the cop spies
Like a voyeur in the bushes,
And the teacher scolds
In patterns resembling
The angry diction of a parent,
The doctor tells you to take a pill,
She could have been your mother.

A bum on a corner,
Is paid for sitting
And holding out a cup
Like a child who wants
More to drink and eat,
And an executive
Drops a gift for them, knowing
A man in a furniture store
Can put his feet on a desk
And give himself a title,
The street sweeper sweeps,
His broom like everyone’s foot,
Kicking the cigarettes and crusts
Off the ground, to the trash can,
From there to the dump far away.

Something for nothing,
The utopia we seek
In our daily lives,
This city is in one search for it,
Leading into a circle,
A hole, a zero
Always looking back at us,
We steal and our robbed,
The Dutch thought
They were stealing Manhattan,
The Natives thought
They were fools trying to buy
Land that no one could own.

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