Waiting for the Elders to tell me,
"Come on, son, get up off of that grate,
you've got gold in your veins and mind;
and when you plant grapes, you don't
get blueberries, you get grapes.
You have nickels taped to your fingernails,
lucky ones, count on 'em;
and the trees you slay for the paper you use
will give themselves up willingly,
because you've got something to say;
print letters, preacher, print them all.
You look down at the soles of your shoes,
and feel some part of you is stuck there,
between the treads and the stamp saying
Made in China, but we're gonna tell you
you're taller than that - more than a stack
of bricks, more than a breath of Gethsemene.
Get up from the grate, and let the steam
go off into the night unhindered by your legs
and arms; you've got to work the sore hands
and patches of hair you tie back like your
head's question mark; you've got to believe, son,
it's time to sow the grapes."