How ironic that my poem for diligence is submitted a full day late.
Fifty-plus years on the cement floor
Or those hollow wood planks where the ships come home,
Rivets and chains convey the slow roll:
Light the fire, turn the gear, churn’em out, let’em go.
Leather apron stained with chemical burn singe,
Dust-mingled sweat to make the eyes itch.
Three kids at home with one job for each,
With only minutes to spare what can he teach?
Charred grease marks only hide the scars
On the surface from starin’ too long at the stars.
Working his way through the American dream,
But I like to think he was chasing something.