Day Labor
His mud spattered black jeans
His mud spattered black jeans
hug the shaft of his leather boots
as he stands with one hand on his hip
one hand on the pump, filling up
his two door square body truck, dented
and paint scratched from a thousand jobs
and the forgotten miles between them.
and paint scratched from a thousand jobs
and the forgotten miles between them.
He knocks his boots against steel
running boards, red clay falling off
in oddly shaped clumps
from a job site still hanging on,
little bits and pieces of work he’s finished
at least for the day. I roll forward to fill up,
and see his truck bed stacked
with wooden planks and a red ribbon
waving from the end as he moves
out of my way.