Working Man ( the truth of who I am )

Standing on my porch at midnight,

My dogs swimming and wagging around my feet,
eager to explode with pent up greetings, undelivered,
but mindful of the routine of tobacco and silence.

I reflect,
I snap shot the day…
everyday,

Clothes and me, still sodden with toil,
that evasive effluvium , that perfect second skin
raining down hour after hour,
grime becoming all that I am.

I burned my body for the buck,
my candle waxing one more drop.

I am the middle man, the step between raw and complete,
I do not see the beginning, nor savor the end,
I dig holes in the desert, in a sandstorm.

My life is balance.

The gash on my left arm , in perfect harmony
with the bruise on my right,
blood and band -aids, I’m naked without them.

I am a working man…
not a work in progress.

There are better songs to sing,I know I’ve sung them,
fulfillment,respect, satisfaction,
but they don’t have the power
of love responsibility and survival.

Standing on my porch at midnight,
tobacco spent.

I hum a little tune, which breaks into a grin,
so I dance a little jig , with my dogs,
and head for the shower.

OLIAS.