The Working Pour

My hands are
nothing to mourn,

calluses running from
my thumbs to
four fingers interlocked
in yours.

And my scars mean
so little anymore,
drawn in vulgar smiles to
remind you I’m vile.

I’ve been at
this a while,
and gotten used to
their form.

And my heart once
gazed out at the shores,
thinking some world beyond
could save me,

inspire some sort
of bravery where change
wasn’t a skeleton in tycoons’ closets
or our earnings all month

and rusted faucets don’t
run cold and dirty during sunlight hours.

But my labours of love will
be devoured like insects when
push comes to shove,
burned down to bone and muscle,
singed hair and dreams,
anything we believe can

amount to a legacy.

All I have are
these working hands,
broken nails that span a lifetime
of crooked backs and

growing old
in factories

locked ’til dusk.


7 thoughts on “The Working Pour

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