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.