He leaned with curiosity. Both hands
on the neck of the shovel; his left leg slightly
bent. A wide brim hat created a recessed
cavern for the eyes to hide. The top two buttons
of the blue shirt lay unhinged; sweat streaked
under the well-worn cloth. Dusty untied shoes
expressed the unwholesomeness from the loss
of steps past and gone.
He gazed at the field; the enemy between his
work and the weakness of the pay; angels find
a reason to visit other lands.
He lifts the shovel, striking the soil, tossing angrily the
dirt and a chaff of dust. Darkness ended the sweat
but morning sprinkles new salt into his wounds.
He is owned by the sweat
While sleeping, he often dreams of the ocean.
Roger Singer 