This morning, as I ply my abstract trade,
Insulated in this cubic palace,
Fingers fly, alphanumeric parade,
Pink hands with hardly a hint of callus,

I think of “honest” work – merciless sun
Bakes the backs of hands, tense and slick with sweat,
Digging post holes, driving I-81,
Nailing down shingles, casting a fishnet.

I return to my desk, its papers strewn,
Computer glow – then recall, I invest
All my efforts to helping those hands, soon
To put work behind them, toward well-earned rest.

11/04/2001

Posted on 11/04/2001
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt