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

his shoes.

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.

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