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.


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