Where is my heavy coat, covered in dirt and
exertion? Touched with the rough hand of
provision. Deep tan, kissed with use and
abrasion and earth:
wounds in the name of warmth.
Where are my jeans,
with stress marks of pale, thin white,
and sex of brown and blue?
Frayed at every end, and twin bellies due
with billfold and key ring.
Where are my boots? Clay forced
upon them, deep underneath their fingernails.
Bound tightly
with laces of sobriety.
Water-tight ships
of voyage and burden.
Where is my dawn?
Invitation to distance,
preview of cold, and
prologue to labor.
Silent herald;
solemn, orange herald.
Where is my dusk?
Awaited release from adulthood.
Safe and anchored rock
amongst the breaks of perspiration.
And where is my woman?
Where is that reason for my working?
Bank of hips and waist,
of voice and of soul,
that I may deposit my wage of toil
and fall asleep beneath her gratitude.
