He lifts the boxes without effort,
small or large as if the same. His features
are commonly obscure, a fighters face
with a broad nose, three scars on the forehead
and an ear blossoming.
His skin is traveled. Working hands explode
from the ends of his sleeves. He wears a
baseball hat and duct tape secures the sides of
He says little while lifting and moving. He is
a machine of flesh. His eyes study the task
before him, never glancing to workers nearby
who carefully step aside. The day is bucket
filled with hours. He leaves at 5. Rounding
a corner until morning signals his return.