I want to give up.
Buy a farm and plow the earth.
Have a plantation.

Fruits, vegetables,
orchards, apples, peaches, figs.
Especially figs.

Ripe, soft, sweet brown figs.
Sell them in farmer's markets
to discerning chefs.

Dirt on my blue jeans.
Soil under my nails.
Proud and defiant.

They'd see me and say,
"That's one dirty little fig
plucker." Har har har.