The Work We Do

Manure, sacked and drowsed across the taut shoulder, bellies
down onto Mike's bare chest and stretched biceps of an arm
arcked and torqued against the offense that labor does. Here again
I regard his old rage to place body and tools apart, see them as
achingly distinct: patience the rake across rocks
submerged in clay, cajole the spade to pry up
cables of old roots, or lower four bags of black soil like
infants into cribs. But weary of tippling seed, he'll pause
with chin atop the broom handle, dawdle over differences, note
how I have paused beside him, dignifying the richest
burden of his effort, his change into something separate
but vulnerable, like garden shrubs and weeds. They witness
all those tolls exacted, all the finer tools of a work
we compel ourselves to do at rest. 

© Karl J. Sherlock