Pr-
A face <my face> reflected thin
In the green tinted cheekbones
Of a ‘high earner’ <wide parker> car
That sits humming on the street
Splitting fuel to lethal noises
Tasty air, that’s called keeping warm
Till some heavy-wallet wanderer
<who couldn’t wait>
returns.
You’ll see, I cut
That winter
out of my hair.
[space]
Pa-
Shorter, thinner, lighter
Flying messy in that diesel air
Cleaner but feeling naked now
Looking paler, sicker,
Trying to tie cloth round,
Anything to look more like me
Than I do right now.
[space]
<&>
[space]
less like the girl
That lost out at the game
And came home
Empty pocketed and carrying
Too much to hold up.
<but caring too much to let go>
[space]
Fu-
Living roundabout.
Crossroad creases.
The days work
Under your fingernails
The hard soap
Dries white lines.
That crease, one runs
Straight across the palm.
Your ‘life line’ a perfect <warning>
sign of your conviction.
I rest my fingers
Across the softer skin
That ridges at your knuckles.
White pucker-
A scar near your thumb
The dirt from work,
The oil you can’t shift,
I’ll love it all the same.
[space]
<conclusion>
[End of Paper]
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Submission Name: Days Work
